THE SOT- WEED FACTOR

ii

1 03 263

THE SOX-WEED FACTOR

by John Barth THE FI-OATINC OPFJRA

THE KKI> OF XJfcUE ROAJD THJ£ SOT-'WJeKO FACTOR

The SOT-WEED
FACTOR

BY JOHN EARTH

DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC., GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

1960

All of the characters in this book

are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Kumber 60-0467

Copyright <g) i<)6o by John Barth

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States «*£ Aimnrica

£>esigrt; Charles Kaplan

CONTENTS

PART I: THE MOMENTOUS WAGER

i : The Poet Is Introduced, and Differentiated From His Fellows 13

2: The Remarkable Manner in Which Ebenezer Was Educated,
and the No Less Remarkable Results of That Education 15

3: Ebenezer Is Rescued, and Hears a Diverting Tale Involving
Isaac Newton and Other Notables 22

4: Ebenezer's First Sojourn in London, and the Issue of It 36

5: Ebenezer Commences His Second Sojourn in London, and
Fares Unspectacularly 51

6: The Momentous Wager Between Ebenezer and Ben Oliver,
and Its Uncommon Result 56

7: The Conversation Between Ebenezer and the Whore Joan
Toast, Including the Tale of the Great Tom Leech 62

8: A Colloquy Between Men of Principle, and What Came of It 72
9: Ebenezer's Audience With Lord Baltimore, and His In-
genious Proposal to That Gentleman 83

10: A Brief Relation of the Maryland Palatinate, Its Origins and
Struggles for Survival, as Told to Ebenezer by His Host 89

ii : Ebenezer Returns to His Companions, Finds Them Fewer
by One, Leaves Them Fewer by Another, and Reflects a Reflec-
tion 108

[6]

PART II: GOING TO MALDEN

i: The Laureate Acquires a Notebook 117

21 The Laureate Departs From London 128

3: The Laureate Learns the True Identity of Colonel Peter
Sayer 139

4: The Laureate Hears the Tale of Burlingame's Late Adventures 144
5: Burlingame's Tale Continued, Till Its Teller Falls Asleep 151

6: Burlingame's Tale Carried Yet Farther; the Laureate Reads
From The Privie Journdl of Sir Henry Burlingame and Discourses
on the Nature of Innocence 162

7: Burlingame's Tale Concluded; the Travelers Arrive at Plym-
outh ijj

8: The Laureate Indites a Quatrain and Fouls His Breeches 181

9: Further Sea-Poetry, Composed in the Stables of the King
o' the Seas X86

10: The Laureate Suffers Literary Criticism and Boards the
Poseidon jog

11 : Departure From Albion: the Laureate at Sea 209

12: The Laureate Discourses on Games of Chance and Debates
the Relative Gentility of Valets and Poets Laureate. Bertrand
Sets Forth the Anatomy of Sophistication and Demonstrates His
Thesis 224

13: The Laureate, Awash in a Sea of Difficulties, Resolves to Be
Laureate, Not Before Inditing Final Sea-Couplets 239

14: The Laureate Is Exposed to Two Assassinations of Character,
a Piracy, a Near-Deflowering, a Near-Mutiny, a Murder, and
an Appalling Colloquy Between Captains of the Sea, All Within
the Space of a Few Pages 255

15: The Rape of the Cyprian; Also, the Tale of Hicktopeake, King
of Accomack, and the Greatest Peril the Laureate Has Fallen Into
Thus Far

16: The Laureate and Bertrand, Left to Drown, Assume Their
Niches in the Heavenly Pantheon 286

17: The Laureate Meets the Anacostin King and Learns the True
Name of His Ocean Isle 301

18: The Laureate Pays His Fare to Cross a River 312

19: The Laureate Attends a Swine-Maiden's Tale 317

20: The Laureate Attends the Swine-Maiden Herself 327

21: The Laureate Yet Further Attends the Swine-Maiden 340

22: No Ground Is Gained Towards the Laureate's Ultimate
Objective, but Neither Is Any Lost 349

23: In His Efforts to Get to the Bottom of Things the Laureate
Comes Within Sight of Maiden, but So- Far From Arriving There,
Nearly Falls Into the Stars 359

24: The Travelers Hear About the Singular Martyrdom of Father
Joseph FitzMaurice, S.J.: a Tale Less Relevant in Appearance
Than It Will Prove in Fact 366

25: Further Passages From Captain John Smith's Secret Histo*
rie of the Voiage Up the Bay of Chesapeake: Dorchester Dis-
covered, and How the Captain First Set Foot Upon It 387

26: The Journey to Cambridge, and the Laureate's Conversation

by the Way 395

27: The Laureate Asserts That Justice Is Blind, and Armed With

This Principle, Settles a Litigation 407

28: If the Laureate Is Adam, Then Burlingame Is the Serpent 420

29: The Unhappy End of Mynheer Wilhelm Tick, As Related to
the Laureate by Mary Mungummory, the Traveling Whore o'
Dorset 427

30: Having Agreed That Naught Is in Men Save Perfidy, Though
Not Necessarily That Jus est id quod cliens fecit, the Laureate
at Last Lays Eyes on His Estate 447

31: The Laureate Attains Husbandhood at No Expense What-
ever of His Innocence 462

32: A Marylandiad Is Brought to Birth, but Its Deliverer Fares

as Badly as in Any Other Chapter 479

[8]

33: The Laureate Departs From His Estate 493

PART III: MALDEN EARNED

i: The Poet Encounters a Man With Naught to Lose, and
Requires Rescuing 5°7

2: A Layman's Pandect of Geminology Compended by Henry
Burlingame, Cosmophilist S1^

3: A Colloquy Between Ex-Laureates of Maryland, Relating
Duly the Trials of Miss Lucy Robotham and Concluding With an
Assertion Not Lightly Matched for Its Implausibility 529

4: The Poet Crosses Chesapeake Bay, but Not to His Intended
Port of Call 543

5: Confrontations and Absolutions in Limbo 556

6: His Future at Stake, the Poet Reflects on a Brace of Secular
Mysteries 575

7: How the Ahatchwhoops Doe Choose a King Over Them 586

8: The Fate of Father Joseph FitzMaurice, S.J., Is Further
Illuminated,, and Itself Illumines Mysteries More Tenebrous and
Pregnant 600

9: At Least One of the Pregnant Mysteries Is Brought to Bed,
With Full Measure of Travail, but Not as Yet Delivered to the
Light 611

10 : The Englishing of Billy Rumbly Is Related, Purely From
Hearsay, by the Traveling Whore o7 Dorset 622

11 : The Tale of Billy Rumbly Is Concluded by an Eye-Witness
to His Englishing. Mary Mungummory Poses the Question, Does
Essential Savagery Lurk Beneath the Skin of Civilization, or
Does Essential Civilization Lurk Beneath the Skin of Savagery?
—but Does Not Answer It 638

12: The Travelers Having Proceeded Northward to Church
Creek, McEvoy Out-Nobles a Nobleman, and the Poet Finds
Himself Knighted Willy-Nilly 650

13: His Majesty's Provincial Wind- and Water-Mill Commis-
sioners, With Separate Ends in View, Have Recourse on Separate
Occasions to Allegory 659

14: Oblivion Is Attained Twice by the Miller's Wife, Once by
the Miller Himself, and Not at All by the Poet, Who Likens Life
to a Shameless Playwright 671

15: In Pursuit of His Manifold Objectives the Poet Meets an
Unsavaged Savage Husband and an Unenglished English Wife 681

16: A Sweeping Generalization Is Proposed Regarding the
Conservation of Cultural Energy, and Demonstrated With the
Aid of Rhetoric and Inadvertence 696

17: Having Discovered One Unexpected Relative Already,, the
Poet Hears the Tale of the Invulnerable Castle and Acquires
Another 709

18: The Poet Wonders Whether the Course of Human History
Is a Progress, a Drama, a Retrogression, a Cycle, an Undulation,
a Vortex, a Right- or Left-Handed Spiral, a Mere Continuum, or
What Have You. Certain Evidence Is Brought Forward, but of an
Ambiguous and Inconclusive Nature 725

19: The Poet Awakens From His Dream of Hell to be Judged in

Life by Rhadamanthus 744

20: The Poet Commences His Day in Court 760

21: The Poet Earns His Estate 774

PART IV: THE AUTHOR APOLOGIZES TO HIS

READERS; THE LAUREATE COMPOSES HIS EPITAPH 791

PART I: THE MOMENTOUS WAGER

i: THE POET IS INTRODUCED, AND
DIFFERENTIATED FROM HIS FELLOWS

IN THE LAST YEARS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY THERE WAS TO BE

found among the fops and fools of the London coffee-houses one rangy,
gangling flitch called Ebenezer Cooke, more ambitious than talented, and
yet more talented than prudent, who, like his friends-in-folly, all of whom
were supposed to be educating at Oxford or Cambridge, had found the
sound of Mother English more fun to game with than her sense to labor
over, and so rather than applying himself to the pains of scholarship, had
learned the knack of versifying, and ground out quires of couplets after
the fashion of the day, afroth with Joves and Jupiters, aclang with jarring
rhymes, and string-taut with similes stretched to the snapping-point.

As poet, this Ebenezer was not better nor worse than his fellows, none
of whom left behind him anything nobler than his own posterity; but four
things marked him off from them. The first was his appearance: pale-haired
and pale-eyed, raw-boned and gaunt-cheeked, he stood— nay, angled— nine-
teen hands high. His clothes were good stuff well tailored, but they hung on
his frame like luffed sails on long spars. Heron of a man, lean-limbed and
long-billed, he walked and sat with loose-jointed poise; his every stance
was angular surprise, his each gesture half flail. Moreover there was a
discomposure about his face, as though his features got on ill together:
heron's beak, wolf-hound's forehead, pointed chin, lantern jaw, wash-blue
eyes, and bony blond brows had minds of their own, went their own ways,
and took up odd stances. They moved each independent of the rest and
fell into new configurations, which often as not had no relation to what one
took as his mood of the moment. And these configurations were shortlived,
for like restless mallards the features of his face no sooner were settled than
ha! they'd be flushed, and hi! how they'd flutter, every man for himself,
and no man could say what lay behind them.

The second was his age: whereas most of his accomplices were scarce
turned twenty, Ebenezer at the time of this chapter was more nearly

[ i A ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

thirty, yet not a whit more wise than they, and with six or seven years'
less excuse for sharing their folly.

The third was his origin: Ebenezer was born American, though he'd not
seen his birthplace since earliest childhood. His father, Andrew Cooke 2nd,
of the Parish of St. Giles in the Fields, County of Middlesex— a red-faced,
white-chopped, stout-winded old lecher with flinty eye and withered arm
—had spent his youth in Maryland as agent for a British manufacturer, as
had his father before him, and having a sharp eye for goods and a sharper
for men, had added to the Cooke estate by the time he was thirty some
one thousand acres of good wood and arable land on the Choptank River.
The point on which this land lay he called Cooke's Point, and the small
manor-house he built there, Maiden. He married late in life and con-
ceived twin children, Ebenezer and his sister Anna, whose mother (as if
such an inordinate casting had cracked the mold) died bearing them.
When the twins were but four Andrew returned to England, leaving Maiden
in the hands of an overseer, and thenceforth employed himself as a
merchant, sending his own factors to the plantations. His affairs prospered,
and the children were well provided for.

The fourth thing that distinguished Ebenezer from his coffee-house
associates was his manner: though not one of them was blessed with more
talent than he needed, all of Ebenezer's friends put on great airs when
together, declaiming their verses, denigrating all the well-known poets of
their time (and any members of their own circle who happened to be not
not on hand), boasting of their amorous conquests and their prospects
for imminent success, and otherwise behaving in a manner such that, had
not every other table in the coffee-house sported a like ring of cox-
combs, they'd have made great nuisances of themselves. But Ebenezer
himself, though his appearance rendered inconspicuousness out of the
question, was bent to taciturnity and undemonstrativeness. He was
even chilly. Except for infrequent bursts of garrulity he rarely joined in
the talk, but seemed content for the most part simply to watch the other
birds preen their feathers. Some took this withdrawal as a sign of his
contempt, and so were either intimidated or angered by it, according to
the degree of their own self-confidence. Others took it for modesty; others
for shyness; others for artistic or philosophical detachment. Had it been in
fact symptom of any one of these, there would be no tale to tell; in truth,
however, this manner of our poet's grew out of something much more
complicated, which well warrants recounting his childhood, his adventures,
and his ultimate demise.

2: THE REMARKABLE MANNER IN WHICH
EBENEZER WAS EDUCATED, AND THE NO LESS
REMARKABLE RESULTS OF THAT EDUCATION

EBENEZER AND ANNA HAD BEEN RAISED TOGETHER. THERE HAPPENING TO

be no other children on the estate in St. Giles, they grew up with no
playmates except each other, and hence became unusually close. They
always played the same games together and were educated in the same
subjects, since Andrew was wealthy enough to provide them with a tutor,
but not with separate tutoring. Until the age of ten they even shared the
same bedroom— not that space was lacking either in Andrew's London
house, on Plumtree Street, or in the later establishment at St. Giles, but
because Andrew's old housekeeper, Mrs. Twigg, who was for some years
their governess, had in the beginning been so taken with the fact of their
twinship that she'd made a point of keeping them together, and then
later, when their increased size and presumed awareness began to embarrass
her, they- had come so to enjoy each other's company that she was for a
time unable to resist their combined protests at any mention of separate
chambers. When the separation was finally effected, at Andrew's orders,
it was merely to adjoining rooms, between which the door was normally
left open to allow for conversation.

In the light of all this it is not surprising that even after puberty there was
little difference, aside from the physical manifestations of their sex, between
the two children. Both were lively, intelligent, and well-behaved. Anna was
the less timid of the two (though neither was especially adventuresome),
and even when Ebenezer naturally grew to be the taller and physically
stronger, Anna was still the quicker and better coordinated, and therefore
usually the winner in the games they played: shuttlecock, fives, or ptilk
maille; squails, Meg Merrilies, jackstraws, or shove ha'penny. Both were
avid readers, and loved the same books: among the classics, the Odyssey
and Ovid's Metamorphoses, the Boofe of Martyrs and the Lives of the
Saints; the romances of Valentine and Orson, Bevis of Hampton, and
Guy of Warwick; the tales of Robin Good-Fellow, Patient Grisel, and the
Foundlings in the Wood; and among the newer books, Janeway's Token
for Children, Batchiler's Virgins Pattern, and Fisher's Wise Virgin, as well

[ l6 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

as Cacoethes Leaden Legacy, The Young Mans Warning-Peece, The Booke
of Mery Kiddles, and, shortly after their publication, Pilgrims Progress
and Keach's War with the Devil. Perhaps had Andrew been less preoccupied
with his merchant-trading, or Mrs. Twigg with her religion, her gout,
and her authority over the other servants, Anna would have been kept to
her dolls and embroidery-hoops, and Ebenezer set to mastering the arts
of hunting and fencing. But they were seldom subjected to any direction
at all, and hence drew small distinction between activities proper for little
girls and those proper for little boys.

Their favorite recreation was play-acting. Indoors or out, hour after hour,
they played at pirates, soldiers, clerics, Indians, royalty, giants, martyrs, lords
and ladies, or any other creatures that took their fancy, inventing action
and dialogue as they played. Sometimes they would maintain the same role
for days, sometimes only for minutes. Ebenezer, especially, became ingen-
ious at disguising his assumed identity in the presence of adults, while still
revealing it clearly enough to Anna, to her great delight, by some
apparently innocent gesture or remark. They might spend an autumn
morning playing at Adam and Eve out in the orchard, for example,
and when at dinner their father forbade them to return there, on account
of the mud, Ebenezer would reply with a knowing nod, "Mud's not the
worst oft: I saw a snake as well." And little Anna,, when she ha8 got her
breath back, would declare, "It didn't frighten me, but Eben's forehead
hath been sweating ever since," and pass her brother the bread. At night,
both before and after their separation into two rooms, they would either
continue to make-believe (necessarily confining themselves to dialogue,,
which they found it easy to carry on in the dark) or else play word-games; of
these they had a great variety, ranging from the simple "How many words do
you know beginning with S?" or "How many words rhyme with faster?" to
the elaborate codes, reverse pronunciations, and home-made languages of
their later childhood, which, when spoken in Andrew's presence, set him
into a thundering rage.

In 1676, when they were ten, Andrew employed for them a new tutor
named Henry Burlingame III— a wiry, brown-eyed, swarthy youth in his
early twenties, energetic, intense, and not at all unhandsome. This
Burlingame had for reasons unexplained not completed his baccalaureate;
yet for the range and depth of his erudition and abilities he was little short
of an Aristotle. Andrew had found him in London unemployed and un-
dernourished, and, always a good businessman, was thus for a miserly fee
able to provide his children with a tutor who could sing the tenor in a

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ IJ ]

Gesualdo madrigal as easily as he dissected a field-mouse or conjugated dp.L
The twins took an immediate liking to him, and he in turn, after only a
few weeks, grew so attached to them that he was overjoyed when Andrew
permitted him, at no increase in salary, to convert the little summer-pavilion
on the grounds of the St. Giles estate into a combination laboratory and
living-quarters, and devote his entire attention to his charges.

He found both to be rapid learners, especially apt in natural philosophy,
literature, composition, and music; less so in languages, mathematics, and
history. He even taught them how to dance, though Ebenezer by age
twelve was already too ungainly to do it well and took small pleasure in
it. First he would teach Ebenezer to play the melody on the harpsichord;
then he would drill Anna in the steps, to Ebenezer's accompaniment,
until she mastered them; next he would take Ebenezer's place at the
instrument so that Anna could teach her brother the steps; and finally,
when the dance was learned, Ebenezer would help Anna master the tune on
the harpsichord. Aside from its obvious efficiency, this system was in keeping
with the second of Master Burlingame's three principles of pedagogy; to
wit, that one learns a thing best by teaching it. The first was that of the three
usual motives for learning things— necessity, ambition, and curiosity —
simple curiosity was the worthiest of development, it being the "purest"
(in that the value of what it drives us to learn is terminal rather than
instrumental) , the most conducive to exhaustive and continuing rather than
cursory or limited study, and the likeliest to render pleasant the labor of
learning. The third principle, closely related to the others, was that this
sport of teaching and learning should never become associated with
certain hours or particular places, lest student and teacher alike (and in
Burlingame's system they were very much alike) fall into the vulgar habit
of turning off their alertness,, as it were, except at those times and in those
places, and thus make by implication a pernicious distinction between
learning and other sorts of natural human behavior.

The twins' education, then, went on from morning till night. Burlin-
game joined readily in their play-acting, and had he dared ask leave would
have slept with them as well, to guide their word-games. If his system
lacked the discipline of John Locke's, who would have all students soak
their feet in cold water, it was a good deal more fun: Ebenezer and Anna
loved their teacher, and the three were inseparable companions. To
teach them history he directed their play-acting to historical events:
Ebenezer would be Little John, perhaps, and Anna Friar Tuck, or Anna
St. Ursula and Ebenezer the Fifty Thousand Virgins; to sustain their

[ l8 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

interest in geography he produced volumes of exotic pictures and tales of
adventure; to sharpen their logical equipment he ran them through Zeno's
paradoxes as one would ask riddles, and rehearsed them in Descartes's
skepticism as gaily as though the search for truth and value in the universe
were a game of Who's Got the Button. He taught them to wonder at
a leaf of thyme, a line of Palestrina, the configuration of Cassiopeia, the
scales of a pilchard, the sound of indefatigable, the elegance of a sorites.

The result of this education was that the twins grew quite enamored of
the world— especially Ebenezer, for Anna, from about her thirteenth
birthday, began to grow more demure and less demonstrative. But Ebenezer
could be moved to shivers by the swoop of a barn-swallow, to cries of
laughter at the lace of a cobweb or the roar of an organ's pedal-notes, and
to sudden tears by the wit of Volpone, the tension of a violin-box, or
the truth of the Pythagorean Theorem. By age eighteen he had reached
his full height and ungainliness; he was a nervous, clumsy youth who, though
by this time he far excelled his sister in imaginativeness, was much her
inferior in physical beauty, for though as twins they shared nearly identical
features, Nature saw fit, by subtle alterations, to turn Anna into a lovely
young woman and Ebenezer into a goggling scarecrow, just as a clever
author may, by the most delicate adjustments, make a ridiculous parody of
a beautiful style.

It is a pity that Burlingame could not accompany Ebenezer when, at
eighteen, the boy made ready to matriculate at Cambridge, for though a
good teacher will teach well regardless of the pedagogical theory he suffers
from, and though Burlingame's might seem to have been an unusually
attractive one, yet there is no perfect educational system, and it must be
admitted that at least partly because of his tutoring Ebenezer took quite
the same sort of pleasure in history as in Greek mythology and epic poetry,
and made little or no distinction between, say, the geography of the atlases
and that of fairy-stories. In short, because learning had been for him such
a pleasant game, he could not regard the facts of zoology or the Norman
Conquest, for example, with any genuine seriousness^ nor could he dis-
cipline himself to long labor at tedious tasks. Even his great imagination
and enthusiasm for the world were not unalloyed virtues when combined
with his gay irresolution, for though they led him to a great sense of the
arbitrariness of the particular real world, they did not endow him with a
corresponding realization of its finality. He very well knew, for instance,
that "France is shaped like a teapot," but he could scarcely accept the
fact that there was actually in existence at that instant such a place

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [19]

as France, where people were speaking French and eating snails whether
he thought about them or not, and that despite the virtual infinitude
of imaginable shapes, this France would have to go on resembling a
teapot forever. And again, though the whole business of Greece and Rome
was unquestionably delightful, he found the notion preposterous, almost
unthinkable, that this was the only way it happened: that made him
nervous and irritable, when he thought of it at all.

Perhaps with continued guidance from his tutor he could in time have
overcome these failings, but one morning in July of 1684 Andrew simply
announced at breakfast, "No need to go to the summer-house today,
Ebenezer. Thy lessons are done/'

Both children looked up in surprise.

"Do you mean, sir, that Henry will be leaving us?" Ebenezer asked.

"I do indeed," Andrew replied. "In fact, if I be not greatly in error he
hath already departed."

"But how is that? With never a fare-thee-well? He spoke not a word of
leaving us!"

"Gently, now," said Andrew. "Will ye weep for a mere schoolmaster?
'Twas this week or the next, was't not? Thou'rt done with him."

"Did you know aught oft?" Ebenezer demanded of Anna. She shook
her head and fled from the room. "You ordered him off, Father?" he asked
incredulously. "Why such suddenness?"

" 'Dslife!" cried Andrew. "At your age I'd sooner have drunk him good
riddance than raised such a bother! The fellow's work was done and I
sacked him, and there's an end on't! If he saw fit to leave at once 'tis his
affair. I must say 'twas a more manly thing than all this hue and cry!"

Ebenezer went at once to the summer-pavilion. Almost everything was
there exactly as it had been before: a half-dissected frog lay pinned out
upon its beech-board on the work-table; books and papers were spread open
on the writing-desk; even the teapot stood half-full on the grate. But
Burlingame was indeed gone. While Ebenezer was looking about in
disbelief Anna joined him, wiping her eyes.

"Dear Henry!" Ebenezer lamented, his own eyes brimming. " 'Tis like a
bolt from Heaven! Whatever shall we do without him?"

Anna made no reply, but ran to her brother and embraced him.

For this reason or another, then, when not long afterwards Ebenezer
bade good-bye to his father and Anna and established himself in Magdalene
College, at Cambridge, he proved a poor student. He would go to fetch
Newton's lectures De Motu Corporum from the library, and would

[20] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

spend four hours reading Esquemeling's History of the Buccaneers instead,
or some Latin bestiary. He took part in few pranks or sports, made few
friends, and went virtually unnoticed by his professors.

It was during his second year of study that,, though he did not realize
it at the time, he was sore bit by the muse's gadfly. Certainly he did not
at the time think of himself as a poet, but it got so that after hearing his
teachers argue subtly and at length against, say, philosophical materialism,
he would leave the lecture-hall with no more in his notebook than:

Old Plato sow both Mind and Matter;
Thomas Hobbes, naught but the latter.
Now poor Tom's Soul doth fry in Hell:
Shrugs GOD, " Tis immaterial:'

or:

Source of Virtue, Truth, and All is
Each Man's Lumen Naturalis.

As might be expected, the more this divine affliction got hold of him,
the more his studies suffered. The sum of history became in his head no
more than the stuff of metaphors. Of the philosophers of his era— Bacon,
Hobbes, Descartes, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Locke— he learned little; of its
scientists— Kepler, Galileo, Newton— less; of its theologians— Lord Her-
bert, Cudworth, More, Smith, Glanvill— nothing. But Paradise Lost he
knew inside out; Hudibras upside down. At the end of the third year, to his
great distress, he failed a number of examinations and had to face the
prospect of leaving the University. Yet what to do? He could not bear the
thought of returning to St. Giles and telling his f ormidable father, he would
have to absent himself quietly, disappear from sight, and seek his fortune
in the world at large. But in what manner?

Here, in his difficulty with this question, the profoundest effects of
Burlingame's amiable pedagogy become discernible: Ebenezefs imagina-
tion was excited by every person he met either in or out of books who could
do with skill and understanding anything whatever; he was moved to ready
admiration by expert falconers, scholars, masons, chimneysweeps, pros-
titutes, admirals, cutpurses, sailmakers, barmaids, apothecaries, and can-
noneers alike.

Aft, God, he wrote in a letter to Anna about this time, it were an easy
Matter to choose a Calling, had one all Time to live in! I should be fifty
Years a Barrister, fifty a Physician, fifty a Clergyman, -fifty a Soldier! Aye,
and fifty a Thief, and fifty a Judge! All Roads are fine Roads, beloved
Sister, none more than another, so that with one Life to spend lama Man

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 21 ]

bare-bumrrid at Taylors with Cash for but one pair of Breeches, or a
Scholar at Bookstalls with Money for a single Book: to choose ten were no
Trouble; to choose one, impossible! All Trades, all Crafts, all Professions are
wondrous, but none is finer than the rest together. I cannot choose, sweet
Anna: twixt Stools my Breech falleth to the Ground!

He was, that is to say, temperamentally disinclined to no career, and,
what is worse (as were this not predicament enough ) , he seemed consistently
no special sort of person: the variety of temperaments and characters that
he observed at Cambridge and in literature was as enchanting to him as the
variety of life-works, and as hard to choose from among. He admired
equally the sanguine, the phlegmatic, the choleric, the melancholic, the
splenetic, and the balanced man, the fool and the sage, the enthusiast and
the stick-in-the-mud, the talkative and the taciturn, and, most dilemmal of
all, the consistent and the inconsistent. Similarly, it seemed to him as fine
a thing to be fat as to be lean, to be short as tall, homely as handsome.
To complete his quandary— what is probably an effect of the foregoing—
Ebenezer could be persuaded, at least notionally, by any philosophy of the
world, even by any strongly held opinion, which was either poetically
conceived or attractively stated,, since he appeared to be emotionally
predisposed in favor of none. It was as pretty a notion to him that the
world was made of water, as Thales declared, as that it was air, i la
Anaximines, or fire, & la Heraclitus, or all three and dirt to boot, as swore
Empedocles; that all was matter, as Hobbes maintained, or that all was
mind, as some of Locke's followers were avowing, seemed equally likely to
our poet, and as for ethics, could he have been all three and not just one
he'd have enjoyed dying once a saint, once a frightful sinner, and once
lukewarm between the two.

The man (in short), thanks both to Burlingame and to his natural pro-
clivities, was dizzy with the beauty of the possible; dazzled, he threw up
his hands at choice, and like ungainly flotsam rode half-content the tide of
chance. Though the term was done he stayed on at Cambridge. For a week
he simply languished in his rooms, reading distractedly and smoking pipe
after pipe of tobacco, to which he'd become addicted. At length reading
became impossible; smoking too great a bother: he prowled restlessly about
the room. His head always felt about to ache, but never began to.

Finally one day he did not deign even to dress himself or eat, but sat
immobile in the window seat in his nightshirt and stared at the activity in
the street below, unable to choose a motion at all even when, some hours
later, his untutored bladder suggested one.

<*§ ?: EBENEZER IS RESCUED, AND HEARS A DIVERTING
TALE INVOLVING ISAAC NEWTON AND OTHER
NOTABLES

LUCKILY FOR HIM (ELSE HE MIGHT HAVE MOSSED OVER WHERE HE SAl),

Ebenezer was roused from his remarkable trance shortly after dinnertime
by a sudden great commotion at his door.

"Eben! Eben! Prithee admit me quicldy!"

"Who is it?" called Ebenezer, and jumped up in alarm: he had no friends
at the College who might be calling on him,

"Open and see," the visitor laughed. "Only hurry, I beg of thee!"

"Do but wait a minute. I must dress."

"What? Not dressed? 'Swounds, what an idle fellow! No matter, boy;
let me in at once!"

Ebenezer recognized the voice, which he'd not heard for three years.
"Henry!" he cried, and threw open the door.

"Tis no other," laughed Burlingame, giving him a squeeze. "Marry,
what a lout thou'rt grown to! A good six feet! And abed at this hour!" He
felt the young man's forehead. "Yet you've no fever. What ails thee, lad?

Ah well, no matter. One moment " He ran to the window and peered

cautiously below. "Ah, there's the rascal! Hither, Eben!"

Ebenezer hurried to the window. "Whatever is't?"

"Yonder, yonder!" Burlingame pointed up the street. "Coming by the
little dram-shop! Know you that gentleman with the hickory-stick?"

Ebenezer saw a long-faced man of middle age, gowned as a don, making
his way down the street.

"Nay, 'tis no Magdalene Fellow. The face is strange/'

"Shame on thee, then, and mark it well. 'Tis Isa^c himself, from
Trinity."

"Newton!" Ebenezer looked with sharper interest. "I've not seen him
before, but word hath it the Royal Society is bringing out a book of his
within the month that will explain the workings of the entire universe!
Ffaith, I thank you for your haste! But did I hear you call him rased?"

Burlingame laughed again, "You mistake the reason for my haste, Eben.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [23]

I pray God my face hath altered these fifteen years, for I'm certain Brother
Isaac caught sight of me ere I reached your entryway."

"Is7t possible you know him?" asked Ebenezer, much impressed.

"Know him? I was once near raped by him. Stay!" He drew back from
the window. "Keep an eye on him, and tell me how I might escape should
he turn in at your door."

"No difficulty: the door of this chamber lets onto an open stairway in
the rear. What in Heav'n's afoot, Henry?"

"Don't be alarmed/' Burlingame said. " Tis a pretty story, and I'll tell
it all presently. Is he coming?"

"One moment— he's just across from us. There. Nay, wait now— he is
saluting another don. Old Bagley, the Latinist. There, now, he's moving on."

Burlingame came to the window, and the two of them watched the great
man continue up the street.

"Not another moment, Henry," Ebenezer declared. "Tell me at once
what mystery is behind this hide-and-seek, and behind thy cruel haste to
leave us three years past, or watch me perish of curiosity!"

"Aye and I shall," Burlingame replied, "directly you dress yourself, lead
us to food and drink, and give full account of yourself. 'Tis not I alone
who have excuses to find."

"How! Then you know of my failure?"

"Aye, and came to see what's what, and perchance to birch some sense
into you."

"But how can that be? I told none but Anna."

"Stay, you'll hear all, I swear't. But not a word till I've a spread of
sack and mutton. Let not excitement twist thy values, lad— come on with
you!"

"Ah, bless you, thou'rt an Iliad Greek, Henry," Ebenezer said, and
commenced dressing.

They went to an inn nearby, where over small beer after dinner
Ebenezer explained, as best he could, his failure at the College and
subsequent indecisions. "The heart oft seems to be," he concluded, "that
in no matter of import can I make up by mind. The moment I grow sensible
that I must choose, I see such virtues in each alternative that none outshines
the rest. Marry, Henry, how I've needed thy counsell What agonies you
might have saved me!"

"Nay," Burlingame protested. "You well know I love you, Eben, and
feel your afflictions as my own. But advice, I swear't, is the wrong medicine
for your malady, for two reasons: first, the logic of the problem is such

[24] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

that at some remove or other you'd have still to choose, inasmuch as should
I counsel you to come with me to London, you yet must choose whether to
follow my counsel; and should I farther counsel you to follow my first
counsel, you must yet choose to follow my second— the regress is infinite
and goes nowhere. Second, e'en could you choose to follow my counsel,
'tis no cure at all, but a mere crutch to lean upon. The object is to put you
on your feet, not to take you off them. Tis a serious affair, Eben; it troubles
me. What are your own sentiments about your failure?"

"I must own I have none/' Ebenezer said, "though I can fancy many/'

"And this indecision: how do you feel about yourself?"

"Marry, I know not! I suppose I'm merely curious."

Burlingame frowned and called for a pipe of tobacco from a wine-
drawer working near at hand. "You were indeed the picture of apathy
when I found you. Doth it not gall or grieve you to lose the baccalaureate,
when you'd approached so near it?"

"In a manner, I suppose," Ebenezer smiled. "And yet the man I most
respect hath got on without it, hath he not?"

Burlingame laughed. "My dear fellow, I see 'tis time I told you many
things. Will it comfort you to learn that I, too, suffer from your disease, and
have since childhood?"

"Nay, that cannot be," Ebenezer said. "Ne'er have I seen thee falter,
Henry: thou'rt the very antithesis of indecision! Tis to you I look in envy,
and despair of e'er attaining such assurance."

"Let me be your hope, not your despair, for just as a mild siege of
smallpox, though it scar a man's face, leaves him safe forever from dying of
that ailment, so inconstancy, fickleness, a periodic shifting of enthusiasms,
though a vice, may preserve a man from crippling indecision."

"Fickleness, Henry?" Ebenezer asked in wonderment. "Is't fickleness
explains your leaving us?"

"Not in the sense you take it," Burlingame said. He fetched out a shilling
and called for two more tankards of beer. "I say, did you know I was an
orphan child?"

"Why, yes," Ebenezer said, surprised. "Now you mention it, I believe I

did though I can't recall your ever telling us. Haply we just assumed it.

taith Henry, all the years we've known you, and yet in sooth we know

naught of you, do we? I've no idea when you were bom, or where reared,

or by whom."

"Or why I left ycm «, discourteously, or how I learned of your
failure, or why I fled the great Mister Newton," Burlingame added. "Very

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

well then, take a draught with me, and I shall uncloak the mystery- There's
a good fellow!"

They drank deeply, and Burlingame began his story.

"I've not the faintest notion where I was born, or even when— though it
must have been about 1654. Much less do I know what woman bore me,
or what man got me on her. I was raised by a Bristol sea-captain and his
wife, who were childless, and 'tis my suspicion I was born in either America
or the West Indies, for my earliest memories are of an ocean passage when
I was no more than three years old. Their name was Salmon— Avery and
Melissa Salmon."

"I am astonished!" Ebenezer declared. "I ne'er dreamed aught so
extraordinary of your beginnings! How came you to be called Burlingame,
then?"

Burlingame sighed. "Ah, Eben, just as till now you've been incurious
about my origin, so till too late was I. Burlingame I've been since earliest
memory, and, as is the way of children, it ne'er occurred to me to wonder at
it, albeit to this day I've met no other of that surname."

"It must be that whomever Captain Salmon received you from was your
parent!" Ebenezer said. "Or haply 'twas some kin of yours, that knew your
name."

"Dear Eben, think you I've not racked myself upon that chance? Think
you I'd not forfeit a hand for five minutes' converse with my poor
Captain, or gentle Melissa? But I must put by my curiosity till Judgment
Day, for they both are in their graves."

"Unlucky fellow!"

"All through my childhood," Burlingame went on, " 'twas my single aim
to go to sea, like Captain Salmon. Boats were my only toys; sailors my only
playmates. On my thirteenth birthday I shipped as messboy on the
Captain's vessel, a West Indiaman, and so taken was I by the mariner's life
that I threw my heart and soul into my apprenticeship. Ere we raised
Barbados I was scrambling aloft with the best of 'em, to take in a stuns'l or
tar the standing rigging, and was as handy with a fid as any Jack aboard.
Eben, Eben, what a life for a lad— e'en now it shivers me to think on't!
Brown as a coffee-bean I was, and agile as a monkey, and ere my voice had
left off changing, ere my parts were fully haired— at an age when most boys
have still the smell of the womb on 'em, and dream of traveling to the
neighboring shire— I had dived for sheepswool sponges on the Great
Bahaman Banks and fought with pirates in the Gulf of Paria. What's more,
after guarding my innocence in the fo'c'sle with a fishknife from a lecherous

[26] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

old Manxman who'd offered two pounds for't, I swam a mile through
shark-water from our mooring off Curasao to squander it one August night
with a mulatto girl upon the beach. She was scarce thirteen, Eben— half
Dutch, half Indian, lissome and trembly as an eight-month colt— but on
receipt of a little brass spyglass of mine, which she'd taken a great 'fancy
to in the village that morning, she fetched up her skirts with a laugh, and
I deflowered her under the sour-orange trees. I was not yet fifteen."

"Gramercy!"

"No man e'er loved his trade more than I," Burlingame continued, "nor
slaved at it more diligently; I was the apple of the Captain's eye, and would,
I think,, have risen fast through the ranks."

"Then out on't, Henry, how is't you claim my failing? For I see naught
in thy tale here but a staggering industry and singlemindedness, the half of
which Fd lose an ear to equal."

Burlingame smiled and drank off the last of his beer. "Inconstancy, dear
fellow, inconstancy. That same singlemindedness that raised me o'er the
other lads on the ship was the ruin of my nautical career."

"How can that be?"

"I made five voyages in all," Burlingame said. "On the fifth— the same
voyage on which I lost my virginity— we lay becalmed one day in the horse
latitudes off the Canary Islands, and quite by chance, looking about for
something wherewith to occupy myself, I happened on a copy of Motteux's
Don Quixote among a shipmate's effects; I spent the remainder of the
day with it, for though Mother Salmon had taught me to read and write,
'twas the first real storybook I'd read. I grew so entranced by the great
Manchegan and his faithful squire as to lose all track of time and was
rebuked by Captain Salmon for reporting late to the cook.

"From that day on I was no longer a seaman, but a student. I read every
book I could find aboard ship and in port— bartered my clothes, mortgaged
my pay for books, on any subject whatever, and reread them over and over
when no new ones could be found. All else went by the board; what work I
could be made to do I did distractedly, and in careless haste. I took to
hiding, in the rope-locker or the lazarette, where I could read for an hour
undisturbed ere I was found. Finally Captain Salmon could tolerate it no
more: he ordered the mate to confiscate every volume aboard, save only
the charts, the ship's log, and the navigational tables, and pitched 'em to
the sharks off Port-au-Prince; then he gave me such a hiding for my sins
that my poor bum tingled a fortnight after, and forbade me e'er to read a
printed page aboard his vessel. This so thwarted and aggrieved me, that at

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 2J ]

the next port (which happened to be Liverpool) I jumped ship and left
career and benefactor forever, with not a thank-ye nor a fare-thee-well for
the people who'd fed and clothed me since babyhood.

"I had no money at all, and for food only a great piece of hard cheese I'd
stolen from the ship's cook: therefore I very soon commenced to starve.
I took to standing on streetcorners and singing for my supper: I was a pretty
lad and knew many a song, and when I would sing What Thing is Love?
to the ladies, or A Pretty Duck There Was to the gentlemen, 'twas not
often they'd pass me by without a smile and tuppence. At length a band
of wandering gypsies, traveling down from Scotland to London, heard me
sing and invited me to join them, and so for the next year I worked and
lived with those curious people. They were tinkers, horse-traders, fortune-
tellers, basket-makers, dancers, troubadours, and thieves. I dressed in their
fashion, ate, drank, and slept with them, and they taught me all their
songs and tricks. Dear Eben! Had you seen me then, you'd ne'er have
doubted for an instant I was one of them!"

"I am speechless," Ebenezer declared. "Tis the grandest adventure I
have heard!"

"We worked our way slowly, with many digressions, from Liverpool
through Manchester, Sheffield, Nottingham, Leicester, and Bedford, sleep-
ing in the wagons when it rained or out under the stars on fine nights. In
the troupe of thirty souls I was the only one who read and wrote, and so was
of great assistance to them in many ways. Once to their great delight I
read them tales out of Boccaccio— they all love to tell and hear stories—
and they were so surprised to learn that books contain such marvelous
pleasantries, a thing which erst they'd not suspected, that they began to
steal every book they could find for me: I seldom lacked reading that year!
It happened one day they turned up a primer, and I taught the lot of 'em
their letters, for which services they were unimaginably grateful. Despite
my being a 'gorgio' (by which name they call non-gypsies) they initiated
me into their most privy matters and expressed the greatest desire for me to
marry into their group and travel with them forever.

"But late in 1670 we arrived here in Cambridge,, having wandered down
from Bedford, The students and several of the dons took a great fancy
to us, and though they made too free with sundry of our women, they
treated us most cordially, even bringing us to their rooms to sing and play
for them. Thus were my eyes first opened to the world of learning and
scholarship, and I knew on the instant that my interlude with the gypsies
was done. I resolved to go no farther: I bid adieu to my companions and

[28] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

remained in Cambridge, determined to starve upon the street-corners rather
than leave this magnificent place."

"Marry, Henry!" Ebenezer said. "Thy courage brings me nigh to weep-
ing! What did you then?"

"Why, so soon as my belly commenced to rumble I stopped short where
I was (which happened to be over by Christ's College) and broke into
Flow My Tears, it being of all the songs I knew the most plaintive. And
when I had done with the last verse of it—

Hark! yon Shadows that in Darkness dwell,
Learn jo contemn Light.
Happy, happy they that in Hell
Feel not the World's Despite.

—when I had done, I say, there appeared at a nearby window a lean frown-
ing don, who enquired of me, 'What manner of Cainite was I, that I
counted them happy who must fry forever in the fires of Hell? And another,
who came to the window beside him, a fat wight, asked me, Did I not
know where I was? To which I answered, 'I know no more, good masters,
than that I am in Cambridge Town and like to. perish of my belly!' Then
the first don, who all unbeknownst to me was having a merry time at my
expense, told me I was in Christ's College, and that he and all his fellows
were powerful divines, and that for lesser blasphemies than mine they had
caused men to be broke upon the wheel. I was a mere sixteen then, and
not a little alarmed, for though I'd read enough scarce to credit their story,
yet I knew not but what they could work me some injury or other, e'en
were't something short of the wheel. Therefore I humbly craved their par-
don, and pled 'twas but an idle song, the words of which I scarce attended;
so that were there aught of blasphemy in't, 'twas not the singer should
be racked for't but the author, John Dowland, who being long since dead,
must needs already have had the sin rendered out of him in Satan's try-
works, and there's an end on't! At this methinks the merry dons had like
to laugh aloud, but they put on sterner faces yet and ordered me into their
chamber. There they farther chastised me, maintaining that while my first
offense had been grievous enough, in its diminution of the torments of
Hell, this'last remark of mine had on't the very smell of the stake. 'How
is that?' I asked them. 'Why,' the lean one cried, 'to hold as you do that
they who perpetuate another's sin, albeit witlessly, are themselves blameless,
is to deny the doctrine of Original Sin itself, for who are Eve and Adam
but the John Dowlands of us all, whose sinful song all humankind must

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 29 ]

sing willy-nilly and die for't?' 'What is more/ the fat don declared, 'in
denying the mystery of Original Sin you scorn as well the mystery of
Vicarious Atonement— for where's the sense of Salvation for them that
are not lost?'

" 'Nay, nay!' said I, and commenced to sniffling. 'Marry, masters, 'twas
but an idle observation! Prithee take no notice oft!'

"'An idle observation!' the first replied,, and laid hold of my arms.
'Swounds, boy! You scoff at the two cardinal mysteries of the Church,
which like twin pillars bear the entire edifice of Christendom; you as much
as call the Crucifixion a vulgar Mayfair show; and to top all you regard
such unspeakable blasphemies as idle observations! Tis a more horrendous
sin yet! Whence came thee here, anyhow?'

" 'From Bedford/ I replied, frightened near out of my wits, 'with a band
of gypsies/ On hearing this the dons feigned consternation, and declared
that every year at this time the gypsies passed through Cambridge for the
sole purpose, since they are heathen to a man, of working some hurt on
the divines. Only the year before, they said, one of my cohorts had sneaked
privily into the Trinity brew-house and poisoned a vat of beer, with the
result that three Senior Fellows, four Scholars, and a brace of idle Sizars
were done to death ere sundown. Then they asked me, What was my
design? And when I told them I had hoped to attach myself to one of
their number as a serving-boy,' the better to improve my mind, they made
out I was come to poison the lot of 'em. So saying, they stripped me naked
on the spot, despite my protestations of innocence, and on pretext of seek-
ing hidden phials of vitriol they poked and probed every inch of my person,
and pinched and tweaked me in alarming places. Nay, I must own they
laid lecherous hands upon me, and had soon done me a violence but that
their sport was interrupted by another don— an aging, saintlike gentleman,
clearly their superior— who bade them stand off and rebuked them for
molesting me. I flung myself at his feet, and, raising me up and looking
at me from top to toe, he enquired, What was the occasion of my being
disrobed? I replied, I had but sung a song to please these gentlemen,
the which they had called a blasphemy, and had then so diligently searched
me for phials of vitriol, that I looked to be costive the week through.

"The old don then commanded me to sing the song at once, that he
might judge of its blasphemy, and so I fetched up my guitar, which the
gypsies had taught me the use of, and as best I could (for I was weeping
and shivering with fright) I once again sang Flow My Tears. Throughout
the piece my savior smiled on me sweetly as an angel, and when I was

[30] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

done he spoke not a word about blasphemy, but kissed me upon the fore-
head, bade me dress, and after reproving again my tormentors, who were
mightily ashamed at being thus surprised in their evil prank, he commanded
me to go with him to his quarters. What's more, after interrogating me at
length concerning my origin and my plight, and expressing surprise and
pleasure at the extent of my reading, he then and there made me a member
of his household staff, to serve him personally, and allowed me free use of
his admirable library."

"I must know who this saintly fellow was," Ebenezer interrupted. "My
curiosity leaps its banks!"

Burlingame smiled and raised a finger. "I shall tell thee, Eben; but not
a word oft must you repeat, for reasons you'll see presently. Whatever his
failings, 'twas a noble turn he did me, and I'd not see his name besmirched
by any man."

"Never fear," Ebenezer assured him. "Twill be like whispering it to
thyself."

"Very well, then. I shall tell thee only that he was Platonist to the ears,
and hated Tom Hobbes as he hated the Devil, and was withal so fixed
on things of the spirit— on essential spissitude and indiscerptibility and
metaphysical extension and the like, which were as real to him as rocks
and cow-patties— that he scarce lived in this world at all And should these
be still not sufficient clues, know finally that he was at that time much
engrossed in a grand treatise Against the materialist philosophy, which
treatise he printed the following year under the title Enchiridion Meta-
physicum"

" 'Sheart!" Ebenezer whispered. "My dear friend, was't Henry More him-
self you sang for? I should think 'twould be thy boast, not an embarrass-
ment!"

"Stay, till I end my tale. 'Twas in sooth great More himself I lived with!
None knows more than I his noble character, and none is more a debtor
to his generosity. I was then perhaps seventeen: I tried in -every way I
knew to be a model of intelligence, good manners, and industry, and ere
long the old fellow would allow no other servant near him. He took great
pleasure in conversing with me, at first about my adventures at sea and
with the gypsies, but later on matters of philosophy and theology, with
which subjects I made special effort to acquaint myself. 'Twas plain he'd
conceived a great liking for me."

"Thou'rt a lucky wight, f faith!" Ebenezer sighed.

"Nay; only hear me out. As time went on he no longer addressed me as

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

'Dear Henry/ or 'My boy/ but rather 'My son/ and 'My dear'; and after
that 'Dearest thing/ and finally 'Thingums/ 'Precious laddikins/ and 'Gypsy
mine' in turn. In short, as I soon guessed, his affection for me was Athenian
as his philosophy— -dare I tell you he more than once caressed me, and
called me his little Alcibiades?"

"I am amazed!" said Ebenezer. "The scoundrel rescued you from the
other blackguards, merely to have you for his own unnatural lusts!"

"Oh la, 'twas not at all the same thing, Eben. The others were men in
their thirties, full to bursting (as my master himself put it) with the filth
and unclean tinctures of corporeity. More, on the other hand, was near
sixty, the gentlest of souls, and scarce realized himself, I daresay, the char-
acter of his passion: I had no fear of him at all. And here I must confess,
Eben, I did a shameful thing: so intent was I on entering the University,
that instead of leaving More's service as soon as tact would permit, I lost
no opportunity to encourage his shameful doting. I would perch on the
arm of his chair like an impudent lass and read over his shoulder, or cover
his eyes for a tease, or spring about the room like a monkey,, knowing he
admired my energy and grace. Most of all I sang and played on my guitar
for him: many's the night — I blush to tell it!— when I would let him come
upon me, as though by accident; I would laugh and blush, and then as if
to make a lark oft, take my guitar and sing FZoiv My Tears.

"Need I say the poor philosopher was simply ravished? His passion so
took governance o'er his other faculties, he grew so entirely enamored of
me, that upon my granting him certain trifling favors, which I knew he'd
long coveted but scarce hoped for, he spent nearly all his meager savings
to outfit me like the son of an earl, and enrolled me in Trinity College."

Here Burlingame lit another pipe, and sighed in remembrance.

"I was, I believe, uncommonly well-read for a boy my age. In the two
years with More I'd mastered Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, read all of Plato,
Tully, Plotin, and divers other of the ancients, and at least perused most
of the standard works of natural philosophy. My benefactor made no secret
that he looked for me to become as notable a philosopher as Herbert of
Cherbury, John Smith, or himself— and who knows but what I might have
been, had things turned out happily? But alas, Eben, that same shame-
lessness by virtue of which I reached my goal proved my undoing. 'Twas
quite poetic."

"What happened, pray?"

"I was not strong in mathematics," Burlingame said, "and for that reason
I devoted much of my study to that subject, and spent as much time as

t 32 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

I could with mathematicians— especially with the brilliant young man who
but two years before, in 1669, had taken Barrow's place as Lucasian Pro-
fessor of Mathematics, and holds the office yet. . . ."

"Newton!"

"Aye, the wondrous Isaac! He was twenty-nine or thirty then, as I am
now, with a face like a pure-bred stallion's. He was thin and strong and
marvelous energetic, much given to moods; he had the arrogance that oft
goes with great gifts, but was in other ways quite shy, and seldom over-
bearing. He could be merciless with others' theories, yet was himself in-
ordinately sensitive to criticism. He was so diffident about his talents 'twas
with great reluctance he allowed aught of his discoveries to be printed;
yet so vain, the slightest suggestion that someone had antedated him would
drive him near mad with rage and jealousy. Impossible, splendid fellow!"

"Marry, he frightens me!" Ebenezer said.

"Now you must know that at that time More and Newton had no love
whatever for each other, and the cause of their enmity was the French
philosopher Renatus Descartes."

"Descartes? How can that be?"

"I know not how well you've heeded your tutors," Burlingame said; "you
might know that all these Platonical gentleman of Christ's and Emmanuel
Colleges are wont to sing the praises of Descartes, inasmuch as he makes
a great show of pottering about in mathematics and the motions of heavenly
bodies, like any Galileo, and yet unlike Tom Hobbes he affirms the real
existence of God and the soul, which pleases them no end. The more for
that the lot 'em are Protestants: this much-vaunted rejection of the learning
of his time, that Renatus brags of in his Discourse on Method: this search-
ing of his innards for his axioms— is't not the first principle of Protestant-
ism? Thus it is that Descartes' system is taught all over Cambridge, and
More, like the rest, praised and swore by him as by a latter-day saint. Tell
me, Eben: how is't, d'you think, that the planets are moved in their
courses?"

"Why," said Ebenezer, "'tis that the cosmos is filled with little particles
moving in vortices, each of which centers on a star; and 'tis the subtle push
and pull of these particles in our solar vortex that slides the planets along
their orbs— is't not?"

"So saith Descartes," Burlingame smiled. "And d'you haply recall what
is the nature of light?"

"If I have't right," replied Ebenezer, "'tis an aspect of the vortices—
of the press of inward and outward forces in 'em. The celestial fire is sent

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 33 ]

through space from the vortices by this pressure, which imparts a transitional
motion to little light globules "

"Which Renatus kindly hatched for that occasion," Burlingame inter-
rupted. "And what's more he allows his globules both a rectilinear and a
rotatory motion. If only the first occurs when the globules smite our retinae,
we see white light; if both, we see color. And as if this were not magical
enough— mirabile dictul— when the rotatory motion surpasseth the rectilin-
ear, we see blue; when the reverse, we see red; and when the twain are
equal, we see yellow. What fantastical drivel!"

"You mean 'tis not the truth? I must say, Henry, it sounds reasonable
to me. In sooth, there is a seed of poetry in it; it hath an elegance."

"Aye, it hath every virtue and but one small defect,, which is, that such
is not the case: the universe doth not operate in that wise. Marry, 'tis no
crime, methinks, to teach the man's skeptical philosophy or his analytical
geometry— both have much of merit in 'em. But his cosmology is purely
fanciful, his optics downright bizarre; and the first man to prove it is
Isaac Newton."

"Hence their enmity?" asked Ebenezer.

Burlingame nodded. "By the time Newton became Lucasian Professor
he had already spoilt Cartesian optics with his prism experiments— and
well do I recall them from his lectures!— and he was refuting the theory
of vortices by mathematics, though he hadn't as yet published his own
cosmical hypotheses. But his loathing for Descartes goes deeper yet: it hath
its origin in a difference betwixt their temperaments. Descartes, you know,
is a clever writer, and hath a sort of genius for illustration that lends force
to the wildest hypotheses. He is a great hand for twisting the cosmos
to fit his theory. Newton, on the other hand, is a patient and brilliant ex-
perimenter, with a sacred regard for the facts of nature. Then again, since
the lectures De Motu Corporum and his papers on the nature of light have
been available, the man always held up to him by his critics is Descartes.

"So, then, no love was lost 'twixt Newton and More; they had in fact
been quietly hostile to each other for some years. And when I became the
focus oft, their antagonism boiled over."

"You? But you were a simple student, were you not? Surely two such
giants ne'er would stoop to fight their battles with their students."

"Must I draw a picture, Eben?" Burlingame said. "I was out to learn
the nature of the universe from Newton, but knowing I was More's prot6g6,
he was cold and incommunicative with me. I employed every strategy I
knew to remove this barrier, and, alas, won more than I'd fought for-—

[ 34 ] 1™ SOT-WEED FACTOR

in plain English, Eben, Newton grew as enamored of me as had More,
with this difference only, that there was naught Platonical in his passion."

"I know not what to think!" cried Ebenezer.

"Nor did I," said Burlingame, "albeit one thing I knew well, which was
that save for the impersonal respect I bare the twain of 'em, I cared not
a fart for either. Tis a wise thing, Eben, not to confuse one affection with
another. Well, sir, as the months passed, each of my swains came to realize
the passions of the other, and both grew as jealous as Cervantes' Celoso
Extremeno. They carried on shamefully, and each threatened my ruination
in the University should I not give o'er the other. As for me, I paid no more
heed than necessary to either, but wallowed in the libraries of the colleges
like a dolphin in the surf. Twas job enough for me to remember to eat
and sleep, much less fulfill the million little obligations they thought I
owed 'em. Ffaith, a handsome pair!"

"Prithee, what was the end of it?"

Burlingame sighed. "I played the one against the other for above two
years, till at last Newton could endure it no longer. The Royal Society
had by this time published his experiments with prisms and reflecting
telescopes, and he was under fire from Robert Hooke, who had light theories
of his own; from the Dutchman Christian Huygens, who was committed
to the lens telescope; from the French monk Pardies; and from the Belgian
Linus. So disturbed was he by the conjunction of this criticism and his
jealousy, that in one and the same day he swore ne'er to publish another
of his discoveries, and confronted More in the latter's chambers with the
intent of challenging him to settle their rivalry for good and all by means
of a duel to the death!"

"Ah, what a loss to the world, whatever the issue oft!" observed Ebenezer.

"As't happened, no blood was let," Burlingame said: "the tale ends hap-
pily for them both, if not for the teller. After much discourse Newton
discovered that his rival's position was uncertain as his own, and that I
seemed equally indifferent to both-which conclusion, insofar as't touches
the particular matters they had in mind, is as sound as any in the Principia.
In addition More showed to Newton his Enchiridion Metaphysicum,
wherein he plainly expressed a growing disaffection for Descartes; and New-
ton assured More that albeit 'twas universal gravitation, and not angels
or vortices, that steered the planets in their orbits, there yet remained
employment enough for the Deity as a first cause to set the cosmic wheels
a-spin, e'en as old Renatus had declared. In fine> so far from dueling to
the death, they so convinced each other that at the end of some hours of

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 35 ]

colloquy— all of which I missed, being then engrossed in the library— they
fell to tearful embraces, and decided then and there to cut me off without
a penny, arrange my dismissal from the College, and move into the same
lodgings, where, so they declared, they would couple the splendors of the
physical world to the glories of the ideal, and listen ravished to the music
of the spheres! This last they never did in fact, but their connection endures
to this day, and from all I hear, More hath washed his hands entirely of
old Descartes, while Newton hath caught a foolish infatuation with theology,
and seeks to explain the Apocalypse by application of his laws of series
and fluxions. As for the first two of their resolves, they fulfilled 'em to the
letter— turned me out to starve, and so influenced all and sundry against
me that not a shilling could I beg, nor eat one meal on credit. 'Twas off
to London I went, with not a year 'twixt me and the baccalaureate. Thus
was it, in 1676, upon my advertising my desire for employment, that your
father found me; and playing fickle to the scholar's muse, I turned to you
and your dear sister all the zeal I'd erst reserved for my researches. Your
instruction became my First Good, my Primary Cause, which lent to all
else its form and order. And my fickleness is thorough and entire: not for
an instant have I regretted the way of my life, or thought wistfully of
Cambridge."

"Dear, dear Henry!" Ebenezer cried. "How thy tale moves me, and
shames me, that I let slip through idleness what you strove so hard in vain
to reach! Would God I had another chance!"

"Nay, Eben, thou'rt no scholar, I fear. You have perchance the school-
man's love of lore, but not the patience, not the address, not I fear that
certain nose for relevance, that grasp of the world, which sets apart the
thinker from the crank. There is a thing in you, a set of the grain as 'twere,
that would keep you ingenuous even if all the books in all the libraries
of Europe were distilled in your brain. Nay, let the baccalaureate go; I
came here not to exhort you to try again, or to chide you for failing, but
to take you with me to London for a time, until you see your way clearly.
'Twas Anna's idea, who loves you more than herself, and I think it wise."

"Precious Anna! How came she to know thy whereabouts?"

"There, now," laughed Burlingame, "that is another tale entirely, and
'twill do for another time. Come with me to London, and I'll tell it thee
in the carriage."

Ebenezer hesitated. " Tis a great step."

"'Tis a great world and a short life!" replied Burlingame. "A pox on
all steps but great ones!"

[ 36 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"I fear me what Father would say, did he hear oft."

"My dear fellow/' Burlingame said caustically, "we sit here on a blind
rock careening through space; we are all of us rushing headlong to the
grave. Think you the worms will care, when anon they make a meal of
you, whether you spent your moment sighing wigless in your chamber,
or sacked the golden towns of Montezuma? Lookee, the day's nigh spent;
'tis gone careening into time forever. Not a tale's length past we lined our
bowels with dinner, and already they growl for more. We are dying men,
Ebenezer: i'faith, there's time for naught but bold resolves!"

"You lend me courage, Henry," Ebenezer said, rising from the table,
"Let us begone."

4: EBENEZER'S FIRST SOJOURN IN LONDON, AND
THE ISSUE OF IT

BURLINGAME SLEPT THAT NIGHT IN EBENEZERT$ ROOM, AND THE NEXT

day they left Cambridge for London by carriage.

"I think you've not yet told me," the young man said en route, "how
it is you left St. Giles so suddenly, and how Anna came to know your
whereabouts."

Burlingame sighed. "'Tis a simple mystery, if a sad one. The fact is,
Eben, your father fancies I have designs upon your sister."

"Nay! Incredible!"

"Ah, now, as for that, 'tis not so incredible; Anna is a sweet and clever
girl, and uncommon lovely."

^"Yet think of your ages!" Ebenezer said. "'Tis absurd of Father!"

"Think you 'tis absurd?" Burlingame asked, coloring slightly. "Thou'rt
a candid fellow."

"Ah, forgive me," Ebenezer laughed; "'twas a rude remark. Nay, 'tis
not Absurd at all: thou'rt but thirty-odd, and Anna twenty-one. I dare-
say 'tis that you were our teacher made me think of you as older."

"'Twere no absurd suspicion, methinks, that any man might look with
love on Anna," Burlingame declared, "and I did indeed love the both of
you for years, and love you yet; nor did I ever try to hide the fact. Tis not
that which distresses me; 'tis Andrew's notion that I had vicious designs

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 37 ]

on the girl. 'Sheart, if anything be improbable, 'tis that so marvelous a
qreature as Anna could look with favor on a penniless pedagogue!"

"Nay, Henry, I have oft heard her protest, that by comparison to you,
none of her acquaintances was worth the labor of being civil to."

"Anna said that?"

"Aye, in a letter not two months past."

"Ah well, whatever the case, Andrew took my regard for her as lewd
intent, and threatened me one afternoon that should I not begone ere
morning he'd shoot me like a dog and horsewhip dear Anna into the
bargain. I had no fear for myself, but not to risk bringing injury to her
I left at once, albeit it tore my heart to go."

Ebenezer sat amazed at this revelation. "How she wept that morning!
and yet neither she nor Father told me aught oft!"

"Nor must you speak of it to either," Burlingame warned, "for 'twould
but embarrass Anna, would it not? And anger Andrew afresh, for there's
no statute of limitations within a family. Think not you'll reason him out
of his notion: he is convinced of it."

"I suppose so," Ebenezer said doubtfully. "Then Anna has been in cor-
respondence with you since?"

"Not so regularly as I could wish. Egad, how I've yearned for news of
you! I took lodgings on Thames Street, between Billingsgate and the
Customs-House— far cry from the summer-pavilion at St. Giles, you'll see!
—and hired myself as tutor whenever I was able, in order to eat, though
I've had no pleasure in my students. For two years and more I was unable
to communicate with Anna, for fear your father would hear oft, but some
months ago I chanced to be engaged as a tutor in French to a Miss Bromly
from Plumtree Street, that remembered you and Anna as playmates ere
you removed to St. Giles. Through her I was able to tell Anna where I live,
and though I dare not write to her, she hath contrived on two or three
occasions to send me letters. Twas thus I learned the state of your affairs,
and I was but too pleased to act on her suggestion that I fetch you out
of Cambridge. She is a dear gidr Eben!"

"I long to see her again!" Ebenezer said.

"And I," said Burlingame, "for I esteem her as highly as thee, and 'tis
three years since I've seen her."

"Think you she might visit us in London?"

"Nay, I fear 'tis out of the question. Andrew would have none of it."

"Yet surely I cannot resign myself to never seeing her again! Can you,
Henry?"

[ 38 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Tis not my wont to look that far ahead," Burlingame said. "Let us
consider rather how you'll occupy yourself in London. You must not sit
idle, lest you slip again into languishment and stupor/7

"Alas," said Ebenezer, "I cannot decide on a life work; I have no long-
term goals toward which to labor."

"Then follow my example/' advised Burlingame, "and set as your long-
term goal the successful completion of all your short-term goals. Could one
wish a better?"

"Yet neither have I any short-term goal."

"Ah, but you will ere long, when your belly growls for dinner and your
money's gone."

"Unhappy day!" laughed Ebenezer. "I've no skill in any craft or trade
whatever. I cannot even play Flow My Tears on the guitar. I can do noth-
ing/'

"Then 'tis plain you'll be a teacher, like myself."

"'Sheart! Twould be the blind leading the blind!"

"Aye,* smiled Burlingame. "Who better grasps the trials of sightlessness
than he whose eyes are gone?"

"But what teach? I know something of many things, and enough of
naught."

"I'faith, then the field is open, and you may graze where you list."

"Teach a thing I know naught of?" exclaimed Ebenezer.

"And raise thy fee for't," replied Burlingame, "inasmuch as 'tis no chore
to teach what you know, but to teach what you know naught of requires a
certain application. Choose a thing you'd greatly like to learn, and straight-
way proclaim yourself professor oft."

Ebenezer shook his head. "Tis still impossible; I am curious about the
world in general, and ne'er could choose."

'Very well, then: I dub thee Professor of the Nature of the World,
and as such shall we advertise you. Whate'er your students wish to learn
oft, that will you teach them/'

^Thou'rt jesting, Henry!"

"Ift be a jest," replied Burlingame, "'tis a happy one, I swear, for just
so have I lined my belly these three years. B'm'faith, the things Fve taught!
The great thing is always to be teaching something to someone— a fig for
what or to whom. 'Tis no trick at all."

No matter what Ebenezer thought of this proposal, he had not the
wherewithal to reject it: immediately on arriving in London he moved into
Burlingame's chambers by the river and was established as a full partner.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 39 ]

A few days after that, Burlingame brought him his first customer— a lout of
a tailor from Crutched Friars who happily desired to be taught nothing
more intricate than his A B Cs— and for the next few months Ebenezer
earned his living as a pedagogue. He worked six or seven hours a day,
both in his rooms and at the homes of his students, and spent most of
his free time studying desperately for the following day's lessons. What
leisure he had he spent in the taverns and coffee-houses with a small circle
of Burlingame's acquaintances, mostly idle poets. Impressed by their ap-
parent confidence in their talent, he too endeavored on several occasions
to write poems, but abandoned the effort each time for want of anything
to write about.

At his insistence a devious correspondence was established with his sister
through Miss Bromly, Burlingame's pupil, and after two months Anna con-
trived to visit them in London, using as excuse the illness of a spinster
aunt, Andrew's sister, who lived near Leadenhall. The twins were, as may
be imagined, overjoyed to see each other again, for although conversation
did not come so readily since Ebenezer's departure from St. Giles three
years before, each still bore, abstractly at least, the greatest affection and
regard for the other. Burlingame, too, Anna expressed considerable but
properly decorous pleasure in seeing again. She had changed somewhat
since Ebenezer had seen her last: her brown hair had lost something of
its shine, and her face, while still fair, was leaner and less girlish than he
remembered it.

"My dear Anna!" he said for the fourth or fifth time. "How good it is
to hear your voice! Tell me, how did you leave Father? Is he well?"

Anna shook her head. "Well on the way to Bedlam,, I fear, or to driving
me there. Tis your disappearance, Eben; it angers and frightens him at
once. He knows not the cause oft, or whether to comb the realm for you
or disown you. A dozen times daily he demands of me whether I know
aught of your whereabouts, or else rails at me for keeping things from him.
He is grown hugely suspicious of me, and yet sometimes asks of you so
plaintively as to move my tears. He has aged much these past weeks, and
though he blows and blusters no less than before, his heart is not in it,
and it saps his strength."

"Ah, God, it pains me to hear that!"

"And me," said Burlingame, "for though old Andrew hath small love
for me, I wish him no ill."

"I do think," Anna said to Ebenezer, "that you should strive to es-
tablish yourself in some calling, and communicate with him directly you

[40] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

find a place; for despite the abuse he'll surely heap on you, 'twill ease his
soul to learn thou'rt well, and well established."

"And 'twould ease mine to ease his/' Ebenezer said.

"Marry, and yet 'tis your own life!" Burlingame cried impatiently. "Fil-
ial love be damned, it. galls me sore to see the pair of you o'erawed by the
pompous rascal!"

"Henry!" Anna chided.

"You must pardon me," Burlingame said; "I mean no harm by't. But
lookee, Anna, 'tis not alone Andrew's health that suffers. Thou'rt peaked
thyself, and wan, and I mark a sobering of your spirits. You too should
flee St. Giles for London, as your aunt's companion or the like."

"Am I wan and solemn?" Anna asked gently. "Haply 'tis mere age,, Henry:
one-and-twenty is no more a careless child. But prithee ask me not to leave
St. Giles; 'tis to ask Father's death."

"Or belike she hath a suitor there," Ebenezer said to Burlingame. "Is't
not so, Anna?" he teased. "Some rustic swain, perchance, that hath won
your heart? One-and-twenty is no child, but 'twere a passing good wife,
were't not? Say, Henry, see the girl blush! Methinks I've hit on't!"

" 'Twere a lucky bumpkin, b'm'faith," Burlingame remarked.

"Nay," said Anna, "twit me no more on't, Brother, I pray you."

She was so plainly overwrought that Ebenezer at once begged her
forgiveness for his tease.

Anna kissed his cheek. "How shall I marry, when the man I love best
hath the bad sense to be my brother? What say the books at Cambridge,
Eben? Was e'er a maid less lucky?"

"Nay, i'faith!" laughed Ebenezer. "You'll live and die a maiden ere
you find my like! Yet I commend my friend here to your attention, who
though something gone in years yet sings a creditable tenor, and is the
devil's own good fellow!"

As soon as he spoke it Ebenezer realized the tactlessness of his remark
in the light of what Burlingame had told him weeks before of Andrew's
suspicions; both men blushed at once, but Anna saved the situation by
kissing Burlingame lightly on the cheek as she had kissed her brother, and
saying easily, "'Twere no mean catch, if you speak truly. Doth he know
his letters?"

"What matter?" Burlingame asked, joining the raillery. "Whatever I lack,
this fellow here can teach me, or so he vaunts."

" 'Swounds, that reminds me," Ebenezer said, jumping up, "I must run
to Tower Hill this minute, to give young Farmsley his first recorder lesson!"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 41 ]

He fetched an alto recorder from the mantelpiece. "Quickly, Henry, how
doth one blow the thing?"

"Nay, not quickly: slowly," Burlingame said. "'Twere a grievous error
to learn an art too fast. On no account must thy Farmsley blow a note
ere he's spent an hour fondling the instrument, holding it properly, taking
it apart and fitting it together. And never, never should the master show
off his own ability, lest the student grow discouraged at the distance he
must travel. I'll teach you the left-hand notes tonight, and you can play
Les Bouffons for him on the morrow/'

"Must you go?" Anna asked.

"Aye, or 'tis stale bread come Sunday,, for Henry hath no scholars of
his own this week. I shall trust you to his care till I return."

Anna remained a week in London, slipping away from her aunt's bed-
side as often as possible to visit Ebenezer and Burlingame. At the end of
that time, the aunt having recuperated sufficiently to manage for herself,
she announced her intention to return to St. Giles, and to Burlingame's
considerable surprise and distress, Ebenezer declared that he was going
with her— nor could any amount of expostulation change his mind.

" Tis no good," he would say, shaking his head. "I am not a teacher."

"Damn me," Burlingame cried, "if thou'rt not fleeing responsibility!"

"Nay. If I flee, I flee to it, not from it. Twas a coward's act to hide
from Father's wrath. I shall ask his pardon and do whate'er he requires
of me."

"A pox on his anger! 'Tis not responsibility to him I speak of at all,
but responsibility to thyself. Twere a noble act, on the face oft,- to beg
his pardon and take your birching like a man, but 'tis no more than an
excuse for dropping the reins of your own life. 'Sheart, 'tis a manlier matter
to set your goal and swallow the consequences!"

Ebenezer shook his head. "Put what face you will upon it, Henry, I
must go. Can a son stand by and watch his father fret to an early grave?"

"Think no ill oft, Henry," Anna pleaded.

"Surely you don't believe it a wise move also?" Burlingame asked in-
credulously.

"I cannot judge the wisdom oft," Anna replied, "but certain 'twere not
a wrong thing to do."

"Marry, I have done with the twain of you!" Burlingame cried. "Praise
Heav'n I know not my own father, if this be how they shackle one!"

"I pray Heav'n rather you may someday find him," Anna said calmly,

[42] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"or word of him, at least. A man's father is his link with the past: the
bond 'twixt him and the world he's born to."

"Then again I thank Heav'n I'm quit of mine/' said Burlingame. "It
leaves me free and unencumbered.7'

"It doth in sooth, Henry," Anna said with some emotion, "for better
or worse."

When the time came to leave, Ebenezer asked, "When shall we see you
again, Henry? I shall miss you painfully."

But Burlingame only shrugged and said, "Stay here now, if t pain you
so."

"I shall visit as often as I can."

"Nay, risk not your father's displeasure. Besides, I may be gone."

"Gone?" asked Anna, with mild alarm. "Gone whither, Henry?"

He shrugged again. "There's naught to keep me here. I care not a fig
for any of my pupils, save to pass the time till something else absorbs me."

After making their good-byes, which their friend's bitterness rendered
awkward,, Ebenezer and Anna hired a carriage to fetch them to St. Giles
in the Fields. The little journey, though uneventful, they both enjoyed,
for despite the fact that Anna was disturbed to the point of occasional
tears over Burlingame's attitude, and Ebenezer grew more anxious by
the mile at the prospect of confronting his father, the carriage-ride was
the twins' first opportunity in some time to converse privately and at
length. When finally they arrived at the Cooke estate they found to their
alarm that Andrew had taken to his bed three days before, at the direction
of his physician, and was being cared for by Mrs. Twigg, the housekeeper,
like an invalid.

"Dear God!" cried Anna. "And I in London all the while!"

" 'Tis no fault of yours, my dear," said Mrs. Twigg. "He told us not to
send for you. 'Twould do him good to see you, though, I'm certain."

"I shall go too," Ebenezer declared.

"Nay, not just yet," Anna said. "Let me see what state he's in, and how
'twill strike him. 'Twere best to prepare him for it, don't you think?"

Ebenezer agreed, somewhat reluctantly, for he feared his courage would
fail him should he postpone the move too long. That same day, however,
Andrew's physician paid a call to the estate, and after learning what the
situation was and assuring Ebenezer that his father was too weak to make
a scene, he took it upon himself to announce to Andrew, as tactfully as
possible, that his son had returned.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 43 ]

"He desires to see you at once/' the physician reported afterwards to
Ebenezer.

"Is he terribly wroth?" Ebenezer asked.

"I think not. Your sister's return raised his spirits, and I recalled to him
the story of the prodigal son."

Ebenezer went upstairs and into his father's bedchamber, a room he had
entered not more than thrice in his life. He found his father anything but
the figure he'd feared: lying wigless and thin in the bed, he looked nearer
seventy than fifty; his cheeks were hollow, his eyes pale; his hair was turning
white, his voice querulous. At the sight of him Ebenezer quite forgot a
small speech of apology he'd concocted; tears sprang to his eyes, and he knelt
beside the bed.

"Get up, son, get up," Andrew said with a sigh, ''and let me look at ye.
'Tis good to see ye again, I swear it."

"Is't possible thou'rt not enraged?" Ebenezer asked, speaking with
difficulty, "My conduct warrants it."

"Ffaith, Fve no longer the heart for't. Thou'rt my son in any case, and
my only son, and if I could wish a better, you too might wish a better
father. Tis no light matter to be a good one,"

"I owe you much explanation."

"Mark the debt canceled," Andrew said, "for I've not the strength for
that either. Tis the bad child's grace to repent, and the bad father's to
forgive, and there's an end on't. Stay, now, I've a deal to say to you and
small wind to say it in. In yonder table lies a paper I drafted only yesterday,
when the world looked somewhat darker than it doth today. Fetch it hither,
if t please ye."

Ebenezer did as he was instructed.

"Now," said his father, holding the paper away from Ebenezer's view,
"ere I show ye this, say truly: are ye quite ready to have done with flitting
hither and yon, and commence to carry a man's portion like a man? If not,
ye may put this back where ye fetched it."

"I shall do whate'er you wish, sir," Ebenezer said soberly.

"Marry, 'tis almost too much to hopel Mrs. Twigg has oft maintained
that English babies ne'er should take French tit, and lays as the root o'
your prodigality the pull and tug of French milk with English blood. Yet
I have e'er hoped, and hope still, that soon or late I'll see ye a man,, in sooth
an Ebenezer for our house."

"Beg pardon, sir! I must own I lose you in this talk of French milk and
Ebenezers. Surely my mother wasn't French?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Nay, nay, thou'rt English sired and English foaled, ye may be certain.
Damn that doctor, anyway! Fetch me a pipe and sit ye down, boy, and
I shall lay your history open to ye once for all, and the matter I'm most
concerned with."

"Is't not unwise to tire yourself?" Ebenezer inquired.

"La," Andrew scoffed, "by the same logic 'tis folly to live. Nay, I'll rest
soon enough in the grave." He raised himself a bit on the bed, accepted
a pipe from Ebenezer, and after sampling it with pleasure, commenced
his story:

" Twas in the summer of 1665," he said, "when I came to London from
Maryland to settle some business with the merchant Peter Paggen down
by Baynard's Castle, that I met and married Anne Bowyer of Bassing-
shawe, your mother. Twas a brief wooing, and to escape the great Plague
we sailed at once to Maryland on the brig Redoubt, cargoed with dry goods
and hardware. We ran into storms from the day we left the Lizard, and
headwinds from Flores to the Capes; fourteen weeks we spent a-crossing,
and when at last we stepped ashore at St. Mary's City in December, poor
Anne was already three months with childl Twas an unhappy circumstance,
for you must know that every newcomer to the plantations endures a period
of seasoning, some weeks of fitting to the clime, and hardier souls than
Anne have succumbed to't. She was a little woman, and delicate, fitter for
the sewing parlor than the 'tween decks: we'd been not a week at St. Mary's
ere a cold she'd got on shipboard turned to a frightful ague. I fetched her
o'er the Bay to Maiden at once, and the room I'd built for her bridal-
chamber became her sick-room—she languished there for the balance of
her term, weak and feverish."

Ebenezer listened with considerable emotion, but could think of nothing
to say. His father drew again on his pipe.

"My whole house," he continued, "and I as well, looked for Anne to
miscarry, or else deliver the child still-born, by reason of her health. None-
theless I took it upon myself to seek a wet nurse on the chance it might
live, for I knew well poor Anne could ne'er give suck. As't happened,
one day in February I chanced to be standing on the wharf where Cambridge
is now, bargaining with some planters, when I heard a great splash in the
Choptank behind me, and turned around in time to see a young lady's
head go under the ice."

"Mercy!"

"I was a passing good swimmer in those days, despite my arm, and as
no one else seemed inclined to take a cold bath I jumped in after her,

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 45 ]

periwig and all, and held her up till the others fetched us out. But think
ye I got so much as a thankee for my pains? The wench was no sooner
herself again than she commenced to bewail her rescue and berate me for
not letting her drown. This surprised the lot of us no end, inasmuch
as she was a pretty young thing, not above sixteen or seventeen years old.

44 'How is't ye wish to end what you've scarce begun?' I asked her. 'Many's
the merry tale hath a bad beginning.'

" 'No matter the cause oft,' she replied. 'In sooth I've little to thank
ye for; in saving me from a short death by drowning, you but condemn
me to a long one by freezing, or a longer by starving/

"I was about to press her farther for the cause, but I chanced to observe
what I'd not remarked ere then— that though her face and arms were peaked
and thin, her belly was a-bloom for fair.

" 'Ah, I see't now,' I said. 'Belike your master had sent ye to feel of the
sot-weed, whether 'twas dry enough for casking, and some field-hand rogered
ye in the curing-house?'

"This I said by way of a tease, inasmuch as I guessed by her ragged dress
and grimy skin she was a servant girl. She made no answer, but shook her
head and wept e'en harder.

" Welladay, then,' I said to her, 'if not a field-hand, why, the master
himself, and if not the curing-house, then the linen closet or the cowshed.
Such a belly as thine is not got in church, I swear! And now the planter's
not stayed to lay by his harvest, I'll wager/

"After some farther enquiry the girl owned she had indeed been supping
ere the priest said grace, as young folks will; but only once, and this not
by force at the hands of a servingman, but rather at the entreaty of a
planter's son who'd sworn his love for her. Nor was't a mere silly milkmaid's
maidenhead he took, i'faith, for she was Roxanne Edouard, the orphan
of the great French gentleman Cecile Edouard of Edouardine, upriver from
Cooke's Point. She'd been reared since her parents' death by a wealthy
uncle in Church Creek, down-county, who was so concerned for her noble
blood that he permitted her no suitors from among the young men of
the place. Twas her bad luck to fall in love with the eldest son of her
uncle's neighbor, another planter, and he in turn was so taken with her
that he begged her to marry him. She was a dutiful enough child not to
wed a young man against the wishes of her guardian, but not so dutiful
that she didn't let him have first go at her anyhow, in the bilge of a piragua
out on the river. Afterwards she refused to see him farther, and the young
fool was so distressed as to give up his patrimony and go to sea a common

[46] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

sailor, ne'er to be heard from again. Anon she found herself with child,
and straightway confessed the whole matter to her uncle, who turned her
off the place at once/7

"How!" Ebenezer cried. "Tis a nice concern he bore her, indeed!
Heav'n protect a child from such solicitude! I cannot fathom it!"

"Nor I" said Andrew, "but thus it happened, or so I heard it. What's
more, he threatened violence to any who took her in, and so poor Roxanne
was soon brought to direst straits. She tried to indent herself as a domestic,
though 'twas little she knew of work; but masters had small inclination
for a servant who would herself need service ere many months passed. Every-
one knew her and her plight,, and many a man who'd been turned from
her uncle's door for paying her the merest cordiality before, made her the
filthiest proposals now she was down on her luck."

"'Sheart! Had the wretches no pity for her state?"

"Nay, e'en here her belly undid her, for so far from discouraging, it seemed
rather the more to enflame 'em, the plainer it showed. Have ye not your-
self observed " He glanced at his son. "Nay, no matter. In short, she

saw naught ahead save harlotry and disgrace on the one hand, or rape
and starvation on the other, and being ashamed of the former and afraid
of the latter, she chose a third in lieu of either, which was, to leap into the
Choptank."

"And, prithee, what did she after you saved her?" Ebenezer asked.

"Why, what else but strive with might and main to leap in again?" An-
drew replied. "At last it occurred to me to invite her to join my house,
since she looked to lighten but a week ere poor Anne; I agreed to keep
her well and provide for her confinement on condition she suckle our babe,
if it should live, with her own. She agreed, we drafted the indenture-papers,
and I fetched her back to Maiden.

"Now your mother, God rest her, grew worse all the time. She was a
wondrous Protestant, much giv'n to Bible-reading, and whene'er I showed
her pity she was wont to reply, Tear not, husband: the Lord will help us/ "

"Bless her!" said Ebenezer.

"'Twas her conceit," Andrew went on, "to regard her several infirm-
ities as an enemy host, and late and soon she was after me to read her from
the Old Testament of God's military intercessions in behalf of the
Israelites. Hence when her ague passed off without killing her (albeit it left
her pitifully weak), she was proud as any general who sees a flank of the
enemy turned, and she declared like the prophet Samuel upon the rout
of the Philistines, Thus far hath the Lord helped us!' At length her time

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [47]

arrived, and after frightful labor she brought forth Anna, eight pounds
and a half. She named her after her own mother, and said again to me,
'Thus far hath the good Lord helped us!' Not a soul then but thought
her trials were done, and even I, who was no Catholic saint nor Protestant
either, thanked God for her delivery. But not an hour after bearing Anna
her travail commenced again, and after much clamor and hollowing she
brought you to light, nigh as big as your sister. Seventeen pounds of child
she dropped in all, from a— well, from a frame so delicate, simple flatulence
gave her pain. 'Twas no wonder she passed into a coma ere your shoulders
cleared, and ne'er recovered from it! That same night she died, and the
weather being unseasonably hot for May, I fetched her down next day and
buried her 'neath a great loblolly pine tree on the Bay side of the point,
where she lies yet."

"God help me!" Ebenezer wept. "I am not worthy oft!"

"'Twould be dishonest not to own/' Andrew said, "that such exactly
were my sentiments at the time, God forgive me. E'en as the burial service
was read I could hear the twain of you a-squalling up in the house, and
when I placed a boulder atop the sandy grave, against the time our mason
could letter a headstone, it recalled to me those verses in the Book of
Samuel where God smites the Philistines and Samuel dedicates the token
of His aid— the stone the Hebrews called Ebenezer. Twas then, boy, in
bitterness and sacrilege, I gave ye that name: I baptized ye myself, ere
Roxanne could stay me, with the dregs of a flagon of perry, and declared
to the company of Maiden, 'Thus far hath the Lord helped us!' "

"Ah, dear Father, berate thyself no more for't," Ebenezer begged—
though Andrew had displayed no particular emotion. "I understand and
forgive!"

Andrew tapped out his pipe in a spittoon beside the bed and, after
resting a moment, resumed his story.

"In any case/' he said calmly, ''you and your sister ne'er wanted mothering.
The girl Roxanne had borne her own child, a daughter, eight days before,
but the babe had strangled ere its first cry with the navel-cord round its neck;
so that maugre the fact there were two of ye, instead of one, she had no
more mouths to feed than breasts to feed 'em with, and there was milk
aplenty for all. She was e'er a healthy wench once on her feed again—
ruddy-faced, full-breasted, and spirited as a dairymaid for all her fine blood.
For the four years of her indenture she raised ye as her own. Mrs. Twigg
declared no good could come of mixing French pap and English blood,
but ye grew fat and merry as any babes in Dorset.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"In 1670, the last year of Roxanne's service, I resolved to leave Maiden
for London. I was weary of factoring, for one thing; I saw no chance to im-
prove my tobacco-holdings, for another; and though Cooke's Point is of all
places on earth dearest to my heart, and my first and largest property, yet
'twas e'er a heartache to live a widower in the house Fd raised for my
bride. Moreover, I must own my position with regard to Roxanne had got
somewhat delicate since poor Anne's death. That she thought no ill o' me
I took for granted, for she was bound to me by gratitude as well as legal
instrument. I in turn was more than a little obliged to her, in that she'd
not only suckled twice as many of my children as she was legally bound
to, but done it with a mother's love, and had taken on most of Mrs, Twigg's
duties as governess as well, out of pure affection for ye. I've said already
she was an uncommon pretty piece, and I at that time was a strapping
wight of thirty-three, prosperous and it may be not unhandsome, who by
reason of poor Anne's affliction and death had perforce slept alone and
uncomf orted since my arrival in the province. Hence, 'tis not surprising
some small-minded busybodies should have it Roxanne was filling Anne's
place in the bedchamber as well as the nursery— more especially since they
themselves had lechered after her. Tis e'er the way of men, I've learned,
to credit others with the sins themselves want either the courage or the
means to commit."

"But marry, what vicious gossip!"

"Aye/' Andrew said, "but As -well be a sinner as known for one. What a
man is in the eyes of God means little to the world of men. All things
considered, I thought it well to release her; yet I could by no means send
her back to death or harlotry, and so 'twas a pleasant surprise when, one
day on that selfsame landing where I'd met her, I was approached by a
man who introduced himself as Roxanne's uncle, and asked most solicit-
ously after his niece."

"I pray the fellow had tempered his wrath by then."

"He had," Andrew said, "to the point where the very thought of his
former unkindness started him to tears, and when I told him of Roxanne's
subsequent straits and of the death of her infant, he near tore his hair in
remorse. There was no end to his expressions of gratitude for my having
saved and cared for her; he declared himself eager to make amends for his
severity, and entreated me to prevail upon Roxanne to return to his house.
I reminded him that it was his unreasonableness in the matter of suitors
for his niece that had driven her to her former disgrace, and he replied
that so far from persisting in that unreasonableness, he had in mind at

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [49]

that very moment an excellent match for her with a wealthy fellow of
the neighborhood, who had e'er looked kindly upon her.

"You can imagine Roxanne's surprise when she learned of all this. She
was pleased to hear of her uncle's change of heart, and yet 'twas like giving
up two of her own to let you and Anna go. She wept and wailed, as women
will at any great change in their circumstances, and pleaded with me to
take her to London, but it seemed to me 'twould be a disservice to the
twain of us to maintain any longer our connection, more especially since
her uncle had a substantial match arranged for her. Thus was it that on
the same day when I gave Roxanne my half of her indenture-bond, sig-
nifying the end of her service, her uncle drove out to Maiden in a buck-
board and fetched her away, and that was that. Not a fortnight later I too
made my last farewells to Maiden, and to the grave of your mother, and
left Maryland forever. Think not 'twas an easy matter to go: 'tis a rarity
indeed when Life presents ye with a clean choice, i'faith! Tis more her wont
to arrange things in such fashion that de'il the course ye choose, 'twill give
ye pain. Eheu! Fve rambled and digressed till I'm near out of wind! Here
now/' he said, handing Ebenezer the document he'd been toying and
gesturing with throughout his narration. "Read this whilst I catch my
breath."

Ebenezer took the paper, curious and uneasy, and read, among other
things:

Andrew Cooke of the parish of St. Giles in the Fields in the County of Middle-
sex, Gentleman doe make this my last will and Testament as followeth ... In*
primus I give to my Son Ebenezer Cooke and Anna Cooke my daughter all my
Right and Title of and to ... all my Land called Cookes Poynt lyng at the
mouth of great Choptank River lyng in Dorchester County in Maryland . . .
share and share alike. . . ,

"Dost see't, boy?" Andrew demanded. "Dost grasp it, damn ye? Tis
Cooke's Point; 'tis my dear sweet Maiden, where the twain of ye saw day-
light and your mother lies yet! There's this house too, and the place on
Plumtree Street, but Cooke's Point's where my heart lies; Maiden's my
darling, that I raised out o' the wilderness. 'Tis your legacy, Eben, your
inheritance; 'tis your personal piece o' the great wide world to husband
and to fructify— and a noble legacy 'tis, b'm'faith! 'Share and share alike/
but the job of managing an estate is man's work, not woman's. Twas for
this I got, reared, and schooled ye,, and 'tis for this ye must work and gird
yourself, damn ye, to make ye worthy oft, and play no more at shiU I,
shall II"

[ rO ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Ebenezer blushed. "I am sensible I have been remiss, and I've naught
to say in my defense, save that 'twas not stupidity undid me at Cambridge,
but feckless indirection. Would God I'd had dear Henry Burlingame to
steer and prod me!"

"Burlingamer cried Andrew. "Fogh! He came no nearer the baccalau-
reate than yourself. Nay, 'twas your dear rascal Burlingame ruined ye,
methinks, in not teaching ye how to work." He waved the draft of his
will "Think ye your Burlingame will ever have a Maiden to bequeath?
Fie on that scoundrel! Mention his name no more to me, an't please ye,
lest I suffer a stroke!"

"I am sorry/' said Ebenezer, who had mentioned Burlingame's name
intentionally to observe his father's reaction: he now concluded it would
be impolitic to describe in any detail his sojourn in London. "I know no
way to show you how your magnanimity shames me for my failure. Send
me back to Cambridge, if you will, and I swear on oath I'll not repeat my
former errors."

Andrew reddened. "Cambridge my arse! Tis Maryland shall be your
Cambridge, and a field of sot-weed your library! And for diploma, if ye
apply yourself, haply you'll frame a bill of exchange for ten thousandweight
of Oronoco!"

"You mean to send me to Maryland, then?" Ebenezer asked uncom-
fortably.

"Aye, to till the ground that spawned ye, but thou'rt by no means fit
for't yet; I fear the University hath so addled and debilitated ye, you've
not the head to manage an estate nor the back to till it. Twill take some
doing to sweat Burlingame and the college out o' ye, but A man must vtdk
ere he runs. What ye want's but an honest apprenticeship: I mean to send
ye forthwith to London, to clerk for the merchant Peter Paggen. Study the
ins and outs of the plantation trade, as did I and my father before me,
and I swear 'twill stand ye in better stead than aught ye heard at Cam-
bridge, when time comes for ye to take your place at Maiden!"

Now this course of life was not one that Ebenezer would have chosen
for himself— but then neither was any other, and he had no grounds for
refusing this or any proposal, for when he looked within himself he found
such a motley host of opinions, of all ilks and stamps, anarchic and shifting,
that to mark the strongest was a thing beyond him. Moreover, when he
reflected upon it, he was not blind to a certain attractiveness about the
planter's life as he envisioned it: he could see himself inspecting the labor
of the fields from the back of his favorite riding-horse; smoking the tobacco

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [51]

that made him wealthy; drinking quince or perry from his own distillery
with a few refined companions; whiling away the idle evenings on the
gallery of his manor-house, remarking the mallards out on the river, and
perhaps composing occasional verses of ease and dignity. He was, alas, not
blind to the attractiveness of any kind of life. And more immediately, the
prospect of returning to London with a clear conscience pleased him.

Therefore he said, halfheartedly but not cheerlessly, "Just: as you wish,
Father. I shall try to do well."

"Why, thank Heav'n for that!" Andrew declared, and even contrived a
thin smile. " 'Thus far hath the Lord helped usl' Leave me now for the
nonce, ere I collapse from very weariness."

Andrew settled back in bed, turned his face to the wall, and said no more.

5: EBENEZER COMMENCES HIS SECOND SOJOURN
IN LONDON, AND FARES UNSPECTACULARLY

BECAUSE OF THE GREAT UNREST IN THE NATION AT THIS TIME, OCCASIONED

by the conflict between James II and William of Orange, Ebenezer, at his
father's advice, did not return toiondon until the winter of 1688, by which
time William and Mary were securely established on the throne of Eng-
land. The idle year at St. Giles was, although he had no way of realizing
it at the time, perhaps Ebenezer's nearest approach to happiness. He had
nothing at all to do except read, walk about the countryside or London-
without-the-walls, and talk at length with his sister. Although he could not
look to his future with enthusiasm, at least he had not to bear the respon-
sibility of having chosen it himself. In the spring and summer, when the
weather turned fine, he grew too restless even to read. He felt full to burst-
ing with ill-defined potentialities. Often he would sit a whole morning in
the shade of a pear tree behind the house playing airs on the tenor re-
corder, whose secrets he had learned from Burlingame. He cared for no
sports; he wished not even to see anyone, except Anna. The air, drenched
with sun and clover, made him volatile. On several occasions he was so
full of feeling as to fear he'd swoon if he could not empty himself of it.
But often as he tried to set down verses, he could not begin: his fancy
would not settle on stances and conceits. He spent the warm months in

[ 52 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

a kind of nervous exaltation which, while more upsetting than pleasurable
at the moment, left a sweet taste in his mouth at day's end. In the evenings,
often as not, he would watch meteors slide down the sky till he grew dizzy.

And though again he could not know it at the time, this idle season
afforded him what was to be his last real communion with his sister for
many a year. Even so, it was for the most part inarticulate; somewhere they'd
lost the knack of talking closely to each other. Of the things doubtless most
important to each they spoke not at all— Ebenezer's failure at Cambridge
and his impending journey; Anna's uncertain past connection with
Burlingame and her present isolation from and lack of interest in suitors
of any sort. But they walked together a great deal, and one hot forenoon
in August, as they sat under a sycamore near a rocky little stream-branch
that ran through the property, Anna clutched his right arm, pressed her
forehead to it, and wept for several minutes. Ebenezer comforted her as
best he could without inquiring the reason for her tears: he assumed it was
some feeling about their maturity that grieved her. At this time, in their
twenty-second year of life, Anna looked somewhat older* than her brother,

Andrew, once his son's affairs seemed secure, grew gradually stronger,
and by autumn was apparently in excellent health again, though for the
rest of his life he looked older than his years. In early November he de-
clared the political situation stable enough to warrant the boy's departure;
a week later Ebenezer bade the household good-bye and set out for
London.

The first thing he did, after finding lodging for himself in a Pudding
Lane boardinghouse, was visit Burlingame's address, to see how his old
friend fared. But to his surprise he found the premises occupied by new
tenants—a draper and his family— and none of the neighbors knew any-
thing of Henry's whereabouts. That evening, therefore, when he'd seen to
the arrangement of his belongings, he went to Locket's, hoping to find
there, if not Burlingame himself, at least some of their mutual acquaintances
who might have news of him.

He found three of the group to which Burlingame had introduced him.
One was Ben Oliver, a great fat poet with beady eyes and black curly
hair, arrogant and energetic, a very rakehell, who some said was a Jew.
Another was Tom Trent, a short sallow boy from Christ's College, also a
poet: he'd been sent to prepare for the ministry, but had so loathed the
idea that he caught French pox from a doxy he kept in his quarters by
way of contempt for his calling, and was finally dismissed upon his spread-

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 53 ]

ing the contagion to his tutor and at least two professors who had befriended
him. Since then he'd come to take a great interest in religion: he liked no
poets save Dante and Milton, maintained a virtual celibacy, and in his
cups was wont to shout verses of Scripture at the company in his great bass
voice. The third, Dick Merriweather, was despite his surname a gloojny
pessimist, ever contemplating suicide, who wrote only elegiac verse on the
subject of his own demise. Whatever the disparity in their temperaments,
however, the three men lived in the same house and were almost always
found together.

"I'God, 'tis Eben Cooke the scholar!" cried Ben upon seeing him. "Have
a bottle with us, fellow, and teach us the Truth!"
"We thought you dead," said Dick.

Tom Trent said nothing: he was unmoved by greetings and farewells.
Ebenezer returned their greetings, drank a drink with them, and, after
explaining his return to London, inquired after Burlingame.

"We've seen none of him for a year," Ben said. "He left us shortly after
you did, and I'd have said the twain of you were off together on some
lark."

"I recall hearing he'd gone to sea again," Dick Merriweather said. "Belike
he's at the bottom oft ere now, or swimming in the belly of a whale."

"Stay," said Ben. "Now I think on't, didn't I have it from Tom here
'twas Trinity College Henry went back to, to earn his baccalaureate?"

" 'Twas what I had from Joan Toast, that had it from Henry the last

night ere he left," Tom said indifferently. "I'll own I pay scant heed to

gossip of goings and comings, and 'tis not impossible I misheard her."

"Who is this Joan Toast then, pray, and where might I find her?" asked

Ebenezer.

"No need to seek her'9 Ben laughed; "she's but a merry whore of the
place, and you may ask what you will of her anon, when she comes in to
find a bedfellow."

Ebenezer waited until the girl arrived, and learned only that Burlingame
had spoken of his intention to ransack the libraries of Cambridge for a
fortnight— for what purpose she did not know, nor did any amount of in-
quiry around the winehouse shed more light on his intentions or present
whereabouts. During the next week Ebenezer lost no opportunity to ask
after his friend, but when it became clear that no clues were to be found,
he reluctantly abandoned his efforts, wrote Anna a distressed note inform-
ing her of the news, and in the following months and years came almost to

[ tA ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

forget Henry's existence— though to be sure, he felt the loss acutely when-
ever the name occurred to him.

Meanwhile, he presented himself at the establishment of the merchant
Peter Paggen, and, on producing letters from his father, was set to totting
up accounts with the junior apprentices at a little desk among many others
in a large room. It was understood that if he applied himself diligently and
showed some ability in his work, he would be promoted after a week or so
to a post from which he could observe to better advantage the workings of
the plantation trade (Mr. Paggen had extensive dealings in Maryland and
Virginia). Unfortunately, this promotion was never granted him. For one
thing, no matter how hard he tried, Ebenezer could not concentrate his
attention on the accounts. He would begin to add a column of totally
meaningless figures and realize five minutes later that he'd been staring at
a wen on the neck of the boy in front of him, or rehearsing in his mind a
real or imaginary conversation between himself and Burlingame, or draw-
ing mazes on a bit of scratch-paper. For the same reason, though he had
by no means the troublemaker's temperament, his untamable fancy more
than once led him to be charged with irresponsibility: one day, for example,
scarcely conscious of what he was about, he involved himself entirely in a
game with a small black ant that had wandered across the page. The rule of
the game, which he invested with the inexorability of natural law, was that
every time the ant trod unwittingly upon a 3 or a 9, Ebenezer would close
his eyes and tap the page thrice, smartly and randomly, with the point of
his quill. Although his role of Deus civi NatUTa precluded mercy, his senti-
ments were unequivocally on the side of the ant: with an effort that brought
sweat to his brow he tried by force of thought to steer the hapless creature
from dangerous numbers; he opened his eyes after every series of taps, half
afraid to look at the paper. The game was profoundly exciting. After some
ten or fifteen minutes the ant had the bad luck to be struck by a drop of
ink not a half inch from the 9 that had triggered the bombardment: flailing
blindly, he inked a tiny trail straight back to the 9 again, and this time,
after being bracketed by the first two taps, he was smitten squarely with
the third. Ebenezer looked down to find him curled and dying in the loop
of the digit. Tears of compassion, tempered with vast understanding and
acceptance of the totality of life and the unalterable laws of the universe,
welled in his eyes; his genital stiffened. At last the ant expired. Suddenly
self-conscious, Ebenezer glanced around to see whether anyone had no-
ticed him, and everyone in the room laughed aloud; they had witnessed

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 55 ]

the whole performance. From that day on they regarded him as more or
less mad instead of simply odd; luckily for Ebenezer, however, they be-
lieved him to have some special connection with their employer Mr.
Paggen, and so made little of the incident except among themselves.

But it would not be fair to suggest that Ebenezer was entirely responsi-
ble for his impasse. There were a few occasions during the first year when
he managed to do his work satisfactorily, even intelligently, for several
weeks running, and yet no mention was made of transferring him to the
promised post. Only once did he muster courage enough to inquire about
it: Mr. Paggen made him a vague reply which he accepted eagerly, in order
to terminate the interview, and never spoke of it again. Actually, except
for infrequent twinges of conscience, Ebenezer was quite content to
languish among the junior apprentices: he had learned the job and was
frightened at the prospect of learning another. Moreover, he found the
city suited to his languor; his free hours he spent with his friends in the
coffee-houses, taverns, or theaters. Now and again he devoted a Sunday,
without much success, to his writing-desk. And in general he came quite to
forget what it was he was supposed to be doing in London.

It was withal a curious time in his life. If not actually satisfying, the
routine was at any rate in no way unpleasant, and Ebenezer floated along
in it like a fitful sleeper in a warm wash of dreams. Often, chameleonlike,
he was but a reflection of his situation: were his companions boasting the
tenuousness of their positions he might declare, in a burst of camaraderie^
"Shpuld old Andy discover my situation, 'twould be off to Maryland with
me, sirs, and no mistake!" As often he went out of his way to differ with
them, and half-yearned for the bracing life of the plantations. Still other
times he'd sit like a stuffed stork all the afternoon without a word. So, one
day cocksure, one day timorous; one day fearless, one craven; now the natty
courtier, now the rumpled poet— and devil the hue that momently colored
him, he'd look a-fidget at the rest of the spectrum. For what's red to a
rainbow?

All of which is to say, if you wish, that insofar as to be is to be in essence
the same Johnny-come-Friday that was John o' Thursday, why, this
Ebenezer Cooke was no man at all. As for Andrew, he must have been
incurious about his boy's life in London, or else believed that A good post
is worth a long wait. The idyl lasted not for one, but for five or six years,
or until 1694— in the March of which, when a disastrous wager brought it
to a sudden end, our story begins.

6: THE MOMENTOUS WAGER BETWEEN EBENEZER
AND BEN OLIVER, AND ITS UNCOMMON RESULT

PIMP IN EBENEZER'S CIRCLE WAS ONE WIRY, RED-HAIRED, BEFRECKLED
ex-Dubliner named John McEvoy, twenty-one years old and devoid of
school education, as long in energy and resourcefulness as short in money
and stature, who spent his days abed, his evenings pimping for his privileged
companions, and the greater part of his nights composing airs for the lute
and flute, and who from the world of things that men have valued prized
none but three: his mistress Joan Toast (who, whore as well, was both his
love and his living), his music, and his liberty. No one-crown frisker Joan,
but a two-guinea hen well worth the gold to bed her, as knew every man
among them but Ebenezer; she loved her John for all he was her pimp,
and he her truly too for all she was his whore— for no man "was ever fust
a. pimp, nor any woman merely whore. They seemed, in fact, a devoted
couple, and jealous.

All spirit, imagination,, and brave brown eyes, small-framed, large-
breasted, and tight-skinned (though truly somewhat coarse-pored, and
stringy in the hair, and with teeth none of the best), this Joan Toast was
his for the night who'd two guineas to take her for, and indignify her as
he would, she'd give him his gold's worth and more, for she took that
pleasure in her work as were she the buyer and he the vendor; but come
morning she was cold as a fish and back to her Johnny McEvoy, and should
her lover of the night past so much as wink eye at her in the light of day,
there was no more Joan Toast for him at any price.

Ebenezer had of course observed her for some years as she and his com-
panions came and went in their harlotry, and from the talk in the coffee-
house had got to know about her in great detail at second hand a number
of things that his personal disorganization precluded learning at first. When
m manly moments he thought of her at all it was merely as a tart whom,
should he one day find himself single-minded enough, it might be sweet
to hire to initiate him at long last into the mysteries. For it happened that,
though near thirty, Ebenezer was yet a virgin, and this for the reason ex-
plained in the previous chapters, that he was no person at all: he could
picture any kind of man taking a woman-the bold as well as the bashful,

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 57 ]

the clean green boy and the dottermg gray lecher— and work out in his
mind the speeches appropriate to each under any of several sorts of cir-
cumstances. But because he felt himself no more one of these than another
and admired all, when a situation presented itself he could never choose
one role to play over all the rest he knew, and so always ended up either
turning down the chance or, what was more usually the case, retreating
gracelessly and in confusion, if not always embarrassment. Generally, there-
fore, women did not give him a second glance, not because he was uncomely
—he had marked well that some of the greatest seducers have the faces of
goats and the manner of lizards— but because, a woman having taken in
his ungainly physique, there remained no other thing for her to notice.

Indeed he might have gone virgin to his grave— for there are urgencies
that will be heeded if not one way then perforce another, and that same
knuckly hand that penned him his couplets took no wooing to make his
quick mistress— but on this March night in 1694 he was noticed by Joan
Toast, in the following manner: the gallants were sitting in a ring at
Locket's,, as was their custom, drinking wine, gossiping, and boasting their
conquests, both of the muse and of lesser wenches. There were Dick
Merriweather, Tom Trent, and Ben Oliver already well wined, Johnny
McEvoy and Joan Toast out for a customer, and Ebenezer incom*
municado.

"Heigh-ho!" sighed Dick at a lull in their talk. " Twere a world one
could live in did wealth follow wit, for gold's the best bait to snare sweet
conies with, and then we poets were fearsome trappers all!"

"No need gold," replied Ben, "did God but give women half an eye for
their interests. What makes your good lover, if not fire and fancy? And for
whom if not us poets are fire and fancy the very stock in trade? From
which 'tis clear, that of all men the poet is most to be desired as a lover: if
his mistress have beauty, his is the eye will most be gladdened by't; if she
have it not, his is the imagination that best can mask its lack. If she displease
him, and he slough her off shortly* she hath at least had for a time the best
that woman can get; if she please him, he will haply fix her beauty for
good and all in verse, where neither age nor pox can spoil it. And as poets
as a class are to be desired in this respect over other sorts of fellows, so
should the best poet prove the best lover; were women wise to their in-
terests they'd make seeking him out their life-work, and finding him would
straight lay their favors a-quiver in his lap— nay, upon his very writing-desk—
and beg him to look on 'em kindly!"

"Out on't, thenl" said Dick to Joan Toast "Ben speaks truly, and 'tis

[ 58 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

you shall pay me two guineas this night! Marry, and were't not that I am
poor as any church mouse this week and have not long to live, you'd not
buy immortality so cheap! My counsel is to snatch the bargain while it lasts,
for a poet cannot long abide this world."

To which Joan rejoined without heat, "Fogh! Could any man of ye
rhyme as light as talk, or swive grand as swagger, why, your verse'd be on
every lip in London and your arse in every bed, I swear! But Talk pays no
toll: I look to pacify nor ear nor bum with aught o' ye but my sweet John,
who struts not a strut nor brags no brags, but saves words for his melodies
and strength for the bed."
"Hi!" applauded Ben. "Well put!"

"If ill timed," John McEvoy added, frowning lightly upon her. "Let no
such sentiments come 'twixt thee and two guineas this night, love, or thy
sweet John'll have nor strength nor song, but a mere rumbly gut to bed ye
with on the morrow."

" 'Sblood!" remarked Tom Trent without emotion. "If Lady Joan reason
rightly, there's one among us who far more merits her favor than you,
McEvoy, for as you speak one word to our two, so speak you ten to his one:
I mean yon Ebenezer, who for lack of words should be chiefest poet and
cocksman in this or any winehouse— John Milton and Don Juan Tenorio
in a single skin!"

"Indeed he may be," vowed Joan, who, being by chance seated next to
Ebenezer, gave him a pat on the hand.

"At any rate," smiled McEvoy, "having heard not a line of his making,
I've no evidence he's not a poet."

"Nor I he's not that other," Joan added smartly, "and 'tis more praise
on both counts than I can praise the rest oy ye." Then she colored some-
what and added: "I must own I've heard it said, Many fat but love lean,
for as how your fat fellow is most often a jolly and patient husband, but
your bony lank is long all over and springy in the bed. Howbeit, I've no
proof of the thing."

"Then 'sdeath, you shall have it!" cried Ben Oliver, "for there's more
to extension than simple length. When the subject in hand's the tool of
love, prithee give weight to the matter of diameter, for diameter's what
gives weight to love's tool-whether 'tis in hand or in the subject, for that
matter! Nay, lass, I'll stick by my fat, as't hath stuck by me. A plump cock's
the very devil of the hen house, so they say: he treads 'em with authority!"
"Tis too weighty a question to leave unsettled," declared McEvoy.
"What think you, Tom?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 59 ]

"I take no interest in affairs of the flesh/' said Tom, "but I have e'er
observed that women, like men, have chiefest relish in things forbidden,
and prize no conquest like that of a priest or saint. Tis my guess, moreover,
that they find their trophy doubly sweet, inasmuch as 'tis hard come by to
begin with, and when got 'tis fresh and potent as vintage brandy, for having
been so long bottled and corked."

"Dick?"

"I see no sense in it," Merriweather said. " Tis not a man's weight, but
his circumstances, that make him a lover. The sweetest lover of all, I should
think, is the man about to end his life, who would by the act of love bid
his adieu to this world, and at the moment of greatest heat pass on the
next."

"Well, now," McEvoy said, "ye owe it to England to put an answer to't.
What I propose is this, that ye put each your best foot forward, so to speak,
this same night, and let Joan take eight guinea from him she names loser.
Thus the winner gets glory for him and his kind and a swiving to boot;
the losers get still a swiving— ay, a double swiving!— and my good woman
and I get chops instead of chitterlings for a day. Done?"

"Not I," said Tom. " Tis a sorry sport, is lust, that makes man a slavering
animal on embracing his mistress and a dolorous vegetable after."

"Nor I," said Dick, "for had I eight guineas I'd hire three trollops and a
bottle of Madeira for one final debauch ere I end my life."

"Marry, 'tis done for all o' me," said Ben, "and heartily, too, for your
Joan's had none of old Ben these two months past."

"Nor shall I more," swore Joan cheerfully, "for thou'rt a sweatbox and
a stinkard, sir. My memory of our last will serve as your performance, when
I came away bruised and abused as a spaniel bitch from a boar's pen, and
had need of a course of liniments to drive out the aches and a course of
hot baths to carry off the smell. For the rest of the wager, 'tis Mr. Cooke's
to yea or nay."

"So be't," shrugged Ben, "though had I known at the time 'twas that
studding I'd be judged by, you'd have found me more bull than boar and
haply have a Minotaur to show for't. What say you, Ebenezer?"

Now Ebenezer had followed this raillery intently and would have joined
in it, perhaps, but that from his overstocked wardrobe no particular style
came readily to hand. Then, when Joan Toast touched him, the hand she
touched tingled as if galvanized, and on the instant Ebenezer felt his
soul rise up in answer. Had not Boyle shown, and Burlingame taught,
that electrical attraction takes place in a vacuum? Well, here was Boyle

[ 60 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

figured in the empty poet: the pert girl worked some queer attraction in
him, called forth a spark from the vacuum of his character, and set him all
suddenly a-burn and a-buzz.

But did this prick-up afford the man identity? On the contrary: as he
saw the direction the twitting took and heard McEvoy give birth to the
wager, he but buzzed and burned the more; his mind ran madly to no
end like a rat in a race and could not engage the situation. His sensibility
all erected and hard at attention, he could feel the moment coming when
the eyes of all would swing to bear on him with some question which he'd
be expected to answer. It was the wait for it, together with the tingle of
Joan Toast's touch and the rush to find a face to meet the wager with, that
made him sick when his ears heard Ben's "What say you, Ebenezer?" and
his two eyes saw ten look to him for reply.

What say? What say? His windpipe glotted with a surfeit of alternatives;
but did he urge one up like a low-pressured belch,, the suck of the rest
ungassed it. Eyes grew quizzical; smiles changed character. Ebenezer
reddened, not from embarrassment but from internal pressure.

"What ails ye, friend?" McEvoy.

"Speak up, man!" Ben Oliver.

"'Swounds! Hell pop!" Dick Merriweather.

One Cooke eyebrow fluttered. A mouth-corner ticked. He closed and
unclosed his hands and his mouth, and the strain near retched him, but it
was all a dry heave, a false labor: no person issued from it. He gaped and
sweated.

"Gah," he said.

"'Sbloodl" Tom Trent. "He's ill! Tis the vapors! The fellow wants a
clyster!"

"Ga/i," said Ebenezer again, and then froze tight and said no more, nor
moved a single muscle.

By this time his behavior had been noticed by the other patrons of the
winehouse, and a number of the curious gathered round him where he sat,
now rigid as a statue.

"Hi, there, throw't off!" demanded one fellow, snapping his fingers di-
rectly before Ebenezer's face.

"'Tis the wine has dagged him, belike," a wag suggested, and tweaked
the poet's nose, also without effect. "Aye," he affirmed, "the lad's bepickled
himself with't. Mark ye, 'tis the fate awaits us all!"

"As you please," declared Ben Oliver with a grin; "I say 'tis a plain case

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 6l ]

of the staggering fearfuls, and I claim the victory by default, and there's an
end on't."

"Aye, but what doth it profit you?" Dick Merriweather asked.

"What else but Joan Toast this night?" laughed Ben, slapping three
guineas onto the table. "Upon your honor as judge,, John McEvoy, will
you refuse me? Test my coins, fellow: they'll ring true as the next man's,
and there's three of 'em."

McEvoy shrugged his shoulders and looked inquiringly at his Joan.

"Not in a pig's arse," she sniffed. She flounced from her chair and with
a wink at the company flung her arms around Ebenezer's neck and ca-
ressed his cheek.

"Ah, me ducky, me dove!" she cooed. "Will ye leave me to the mercies of
yon tub o' suet, to lard like any poor partridge? Save me, sirl"

But Ebenezer sat unmoved and unmoving.

"Tis no lardoon thou'rt in for," Ben said. "Tis the very spit!"

"Ah! Ah!" cried Joan as though terrified and, clambering onto Ebene-
zer's lap, hid her face in his neck. "I shake and I shiver!"

The company shouted with delight. Joan grasped one of Ebenezer's
large ears in each hand and drew his face nose to nose with her own.

"Carry me off!" she implored him.

"To the spit with her!" urged an onlooker. "Baste the hussy!"

"Aye," said Ben, and crooked his finger at her. "Come along now,
sweetmeat."

"As ye be a man and a poet, Eben Cooke," Joan scolded, jumping to her
feet and shouting in his ear, "I lay it upon ye to match this rascal's gold
with your own and have done with't. If ye will not speak up and act the
man, I'm Ben's and be damned t'ye!"

Ebenezer gave a slight start and suddenly stood up, blinking as if just
roused from bed. His features twitched, and he alternately blushed and
paled as he opened his mouth to speak.

"I had five guineas but this morning by messenger from my father,7' he
said weakly.

"Thou'rt a fool," said Dick Merriweather. "She asks but three, and
had you spoke sooner 'twould've cost you but two!"

"Will ye raise him two bob, Ben?" asked John McEvoy, who had been
watching the proceedings serenely.

"Indeed he shan't!" snapped Joan. "Is this a horse auction, then, and
I a mare to be rid by the high bidder?" She took Ebenezer's arm fondly.

[ g2 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Only match Ben's three guineas, ducky, and speak no more oft The
night's near done, and I am ill o' this lewd raillery."

Ebenezer gawked, swallowed, and shifted his weight

"I cannot match it here," he said, "for I've but a crown in my purse." He
glanced around him wildly. "The money is in my rooms," he added, teeter-
ing as if to swoon. "Come with me there, and you shall have't all"

"Hello, the lad's no fool!" said Tom Trent. "He knows a thing or two!"

"'Sblood, a very Jew!" agreed Dick Merriweather.

"Better a fowl in hand than two flying" Ben Oliver laughed, and jingled
his three guineas. "'Tis a hoax and fraud, to lure honest women to their
ruin! What would your father say, Ebenezer, did he get wind oft? Shame^
shame!"

"Pay the great ass no heed," said Joan.

Ebenezer swayed again, and several of the company tittered.

"I swear to you " he began.

"Shame! Shame!" cried Ben once more, wagging a fat finger at him to
the company's delight

Ebenezer tried again, but could do no more than raise his hand and let
it fall.

"Stand off!" someone warned uneasily. "He is starching up again!"

"Shame!" roared Ben.

Ebenezer goggled at Joan Toast for a second and then lurched full speed
across the room and out of the winehouse.

7: THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN EBENEZER AND
THE WHORE JOAN TOAST, INCLUDING THE TALE OF
THE GREAT TOM LEECH.

AS A RULE EBENEZER WOULD AFTER SUCH A BUMBLE HAVE BEEN IN FOR

some hours of motionless reflection in his room. It was his habit (for such
rigidities as this at Locket's were not new to him) upon recovering himself
to sit at his writing-desk, looking-glass in hand, and stare fish-eyed at his
face, which only during such spells was still. But this time, though he did
indeed take up his vis-a-vis> the face he regarded was anything but vacant:
on the contrary, where typically he'd have seen a countenance blank as an
owl's, now he saw a roil as of swallows round a chimney pot; whereas an-

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 63 ]

other time he'd have heard in his head but a cosmic rustle, as though
his skull were a stranded wentletrap, now he sweated, blushed, and dreamed
two score ragged dreams. He studied the ears Joan Toast had touched, as
though by study to restore their tingle, and when he could by no means
succeed, he recognized with alarm that it was his heart she now had
hands on.

"Ah God/' he cried aloud, "that I'd risen to the wager!"

The manly sound of his voice arrested him. Moreover, it was the first
time he'd ever spoken to himself aloud, and he failed to be embarrassed
by it.

"Had I but another chance," he declared to himself, "'twould be no
chore to snatch the moment! Lord, into what ferment have those eyes put
me! Into what heat those bosoms!"

He took up the glass again, made himself a face, and inquired, "Who art
thou now, queer fellow? Hi, there is a twitch in thy blood, I see— a fidget
in thy soul! Twere a right manly man Joan Toast would taste, were the
wench but here to taste him!"

It occurred to him to return to Locket's to seek her out, on the chance
she'd not have succumbed to Ben Oliver's entreaties. But he was reluctant
to confront his friends so soon after his flight, in the first place, and in the
second

"Curse me for my innocence!" he railed, pounding his fist upon some
blank papers on the writing-desk. "What knowledge have I of such things?
Suppose she should come with me? 'Sblood! What then?

"Yet 'tis now or never," he told himself grimly. "This Joan Toast sees in
me what no woman hath before, nor I myself: a man like other men. And
for aught I know she hath made me one, for when else have I talked to
myself? When else felt so potent? To Locket's," he ordered himself, "or go
virgin to the grave!"

Nevertheless he did not get up, but lapsed instead into lecherous, com-
plicated reveries of rescue and gratitude; of shipwreck or plague and mutual
survivorship; of abduction, flight, and violent assault; and, sweetest of all, of
towering fame and casual indulgence. When at length he realized that he
was not going to Locket's at all, he was overcome with self-loathing and
returned, in despair, once more to the mirror.

He calmed at the sight of the face in it.

"Odd fellow, there! Ooo-ooo/ Hey-nonny-nonny! Fa-la!"

He leered and mouthed into the glass until his eyes brimmed with tears,

[64] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

and then, exhausted, buried his face in his long aims. Presently he fell
asleep.

There came, an uncertain time later, a knocking at the entrance door
below, and before Ebenezer was awake enough to wonder at it, his own
door was opened by his servant, Bertrand, who had been sent to him just a
few days earlier by his father. This Bertrand was a thin-faced, wide-eyed
bachelor in his later forties whom Ebenezer knew scarcely at all, for
Andrew had hired him while the young man was still at Cambridge. With
him, when he had come from the St. Giles establishment, he had brought
the following note from Andrew, in an envelope sealed with wax:

Ebenezer,

The Bearer of this note is Bertrand Burton, my Valet since 1686, and now
yours, if you want him. He is a diligent enough fellow, if something presump-
tuous, and will make you a good man if you hold him to his place. Mrs Twigg
and he got on ill together, to the point where I had either to sack him or
lose her, without whom I could scarce manage my house. Yet deeming it a hard
matter to sack the fellow outright, whose only fault is, that though he never
forgets his work, he oft forgets his place, I have promoted him out of my service
into yours. I shall pay him his first quarters wage; after that, if you want him,
I presume your post with Paggen will afford him.

Though his current wage from Peter Paggen, which was precisely what
it had been in 1688, was barely adequate to keep himself, Ebenezer none-
theless had welcomed Bertrand's service, at least for the three months dur-
ing which it was to cost him nothing. Luckily, the room adjoining his own
was unoccupied at the time, and he had arranged with his landlord for
Bertrand to lodge there, where he was always within call.

Now the man stepped into the room in nightshirt and cap, all smiles and
winks, said, "A lady to see you, sir/' and, to Ebenezer's great surprise,
ushered Joan Toast herself into the room.

"I shall retire at once," he announced, winking again, and left them be-
fore Ebenezer could recover sufficiently to protest. He was extremely
embarrassed and not a little alarmed at being alone with her, but Joan, not
a whit disturbed, came over to where he still sat at the writing table and
bussed him lightly upon the cheek.

"Say not a word/' she ordered, taking off her hat. "I know well I'm
tardy, and I ask your pardon for't."

Ebenezer sat dumb, too astonished to speak. Joan strode blithely to the
windows, closed the curtains, and commenced undressing.

Tis your friend Ben Oliver's to blame, with his three guineas, and his

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 65 ]

four guineas, and his five guineas, and his great hands both a-clench to lay
hold on me! But a shilling o'er your five he couldn't offer, or wouldn't, and
since 'twas you first offered it, I'm quit o' the brute with conscience clear."

Ebenezer stared at her, head afire.

"Come along now, sweet," Joan said presently, and turned to him
entirely unclothed. "Put thy guineas upon the table and let's to bed.
Faith, but there's a nip in the air this night! Brrr! Jump to't, now!" She
sprang to the bed and snuggled under the coverlets, drawing them up
around her chin.

"Come along!" she said again, a bit more briskly.

"Ah God, I cannot!" Ebenezer said. His face was rapturous, his eyes
were wild.

"Ye what?" Joan cried, throwing back the covers and sitting up in alarm.

"I cannot pay thee," Ebenezer declared.

"Not pay me! What prank is this, sir, ye make me butt of, when I have
put off Ben Oliver and his five gold guineas? Out with thy money now,
Master Cooke, and off with thy breeches, and prank me no pranks!"

"Tis no prank, Joan Toast," said Ebenezer. "I cannot pay thee five
guineas, or four guineas, or three. I cannot pay thee a shilling.. Nay, not so
much as a farthing."

"What! Are ye paupered, then?" She gripped his shoulders as if to shake
him. "Marry, sir, open wide those great cow's eyes, that I may claw them
from out their sockets! Think ye to make a fool o' me?" She swung her
legs over the side of the bed.

"Nay, nay, lady!" Ebenezer cried,, falling to his knees before her. "Nay,
I have the five guineas, and more. But how price the priceless? How buy
Heaven with simple gold? Ah, Joan Toast, ask me not to cheapen thee so!
Was't for gold that silver-footed Thetis shared the bed of Peleus, Achilles'
sire? Think thee Venus and Anchises did their amorous work on considera-
tion of five guineas? Nay, sweet Joan, a man seeks not in the market for the
favors of a goddess!"

"Let foreign bawds run their business as't please 'em," Joan declared,
somewhat calmer. " 'Tis five guineas the night for this one, and pay ere ye
play. Do ye reckon it cheap, then pleasure in thy bargain: 'tis all one to
me. What a temper ye put me in with thy not a farthing! I had near
leaped ye! Come along, now, and save thy conceits for a love sonnet in the
morning."

"Ah, dear God, Joan, wilt thou not see?" said Ebenezer, still down upon
his knees. " 'Tis not for common sport I crave thee, as might another: such

[66] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

lechery I leave to mere gluttonous whoremongers like Ben Oliver. What I
crave of thee cannot be bought!"

"Aha/' smiled Joan, "so 'tis a matter o' strange tastes, is't? Fd not have
guessed it by the honest look o' ye, but think not so quickly 'tis out o' the
question. Well do I know There's more -ways to the woods than one, and
if t work no great or lasting hurt, why, 'tis but a matter o7 price to me, sir.
Name me thy game, and I'll fix thee thy fee/'

"Joan, Joan, put by this talk!" cried Ebenezer, shaking his head, "Can
you not see it tears my heart? What's past is past; I cannot bear to think
on't, how much the less hear it from thy sweet lips! Dear girl, I swear to thee
now I am a virgin, and as I come to thee pure and undefiled, so in my
mind you come to me; whate'er hath gone before, speak not of it. Nay!"
he warned, for Joan's mouth dropped open. "Nay, not a word oft, for 'tis
over and done. Joan Toast, I love thee! Ah, that startles thee! Aye, I swear
to Heaven I love thee, and 'twas to declare it I wished thee here. Speak no
more of your awful trafficking, for I love thy sweet body unspeakably, and
that spirit which it so fairly houses, unimaginably!"

"Nay, Mr. Cooke, 'tis an unbecoming jest ye make, to call thyself virgin,"
Joan said doubtfully.

"As God is my witness," swore Ebenezer, "I have known no woman
carnally to this night, nor ever loved at all."

"But how is that?" Joan demanded. "Why, when I was but a slip of a
thing, not yet fourteen and innocent of the world's villainy, I recall I once
cried out at table how I had commenced a queer letting of blood, and
what was I ill of? And send quick for the leeches! And everyone laughed
and made strange jests, but none would tell me what was the cause oft
Then my young bachelor uncle Harold approached me privily, and kissed
me upon the lips and stroked my hair, and told me 'twas no common
leech I wanted, for that I was letting much blood already; but that anon
when I had stopped I should come to him in secret, for he kept in his
rooms a great torn leech such as I had ne'er yet been bit by, the virtue of
which was, that it would restore by sweet infusions what I had lost. I be-
lieved without question all that he told me, for he was a great favorite o'
mine, more brother than uncle to me, and therefore I said naught to any-
one, but directly the curse left me went straight to his bedchamber, as he
had prescribed. 'Where is the great torn leech?' I asked him. 4I have't ready/
said he, *but it fears the light and will do its work only in darkness. Make
thyself ready,' said he, 'and I'll apply the leech where it must go/ *Very well,'

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [67]

said I, "but ye must tell me how to ready myself, Harold, for I know naught
of leeching/ 'Disrobe thyself/ said he, 'and lie down upon the bed/

"And so I stripped myself all naked, simple soul that I was, right before
his eyes, and lay down upon the bed as he directed— a skinny pup I, as yet
unbreasted and unfurred— and he blew out the candle. 'Ah, dear Harold!'
I cried. 'Come lie beside me on the bed, I pray, for I fear the bite o' thy
great torn leech in the dark!' Harold made me no answer, but shortly joined
me upon his bed. 'How is this?' I cried, feeling his skin upon me. 'Do you
mean to take the leech as well? Did you too lose blood?' 'Nay/ he laughed,
' 'tis but the manner whereby my leech must be applied. I have't ready for
ye, dear girl; are ye ready for't?' 'Nay, dear Harold,' I cried, 'I am fearful!
Where will it bite me? How will it hurt?' ' 'Twill bite where it must/ said
Harold, 'and 'twill pain ye a mere minute, and then pleasure ye enough/
'Ah, then,' I sighed, 'let us get by the pain and hasten the pleasure with all
speed. But prithee hold my hand, lest I cry out at the creature's bite/
*Ye shan't cry out,' Harold said then, 'for I shall kiss ye/

"And straightway he embraced me and kissed my mouth tight shut, and,
while we were a-kissing, suddenly I felt the great torn leech his fearful bite,
and I was maiden no more! At first I wept, not alone from the pain he'd
warned of, but from alarm at what I'd learned o' the leech's nature. But e'en
as Harold promised, the pain soon flew, and his great torn leech took
bite after bite till near sunup, by which time, though I was by no means
weary o' the leeching, my Harold had no more leech to leech with, but only
a poor cockroach or simple pismire, not fit for the work, which scurried
away at the first light. Twas then I learned the queer virtue o' this animal:
for just as a fleabite, the more ye scratch it, wants scratching the more, so,
once this creature had bit me, I longed for futher bites and was forever after
poor Harold and his leech, like an opium eater his phial. And though since
then I've suffered the bite of every sort and size— none more fearsome or
ravenous than my good John's— yet the craving plagues me still, till I shiver
at the thought o' the great torn leech!"

"Stop, I beg thee!" Ebenezer pleaded. "I cannot hear more! What, 'Dear
Uncle/ you call him, and 'Poor Harold'! Ah, the knave, the scoundrel,
to deceive you so, who loved and trusted him! Twas no leechery he put
thee to, but lechery, and laid thy maiden body forever in the bed of harlotry!
I curse him, and his ilk!"

"Ye say't with relish," smiled Joan, "as one who'd do the like with fire
in his eye and sweat on his arse, could he find himself a child fond as I. Nay,
Ebenezer, rail not at poor dear Harold, who is these several years under the

[ 68 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

sod from an ague got swiving ardently in cold chambers. Says I, 'tis but the
nature o' the leech to bite and of the leeched to want biting, and 'tis
a mystery and astonishment to me, since so many crave leeching and the
best leech is so lightly surfeited, how yours hath gone starved, as ye declare,
these thirty years! What, are ye a mere arrant sluggard, sir? Or are ye haply
o' that queer sort who lust for none but their own sex? Tis a thing past
grasping!"

"Nor the one nor the other," replied Ebenezer. "I am man in spirit as
well as body, and my innocence is not wholly my own choosing. I have
ere now been ready enough, but to grind love's grain wants mortar as well
as pestle; no man dances the morris dance alone^ and till this night no
woman e'er looked on me with favor."

"Marry!" laughed Joan. "Doth the ewe chase the ram, or the hen the
cock? Doth the field come to the plow for furrowing, or the scabbard to
the sword for sheathing? 'Tis all arsy-turvy ye look at the world!"

"That I grant," sighed Ebenezer, "but I know naught of the art of
seduction, nor have the patience for't."

"Fogh! There's no great labor to the bedding of women! For the most,
all a man need do, I swear, is ask plainly and politely, did he but know it"
"How is that?" exclaimed Ebenezer in astonishment "Are women then
so lecherous?"

"Nay," said Joan. "Think not we crave a swiving pure and simple at any
time as do men always-'tis oft a pleasure with us, but rarely a passion.
Howbeit, what with men forever panting at us like so many hounds at a
salt-bitch, and begging us put by our virtue and give 'em a tumble, and
withal despising us for whores and slatterns if we do; or bidding us be
faithful to our husbands and yet losing no chance to cuckold their truest
friends; or charging us to guard our chastity and yet assaulting it from all
quarters in every alleyway, carriage, or sitting room; or being soon bored
with us if we show no fire in swiving and yet sermoning us for sinners if we
do; inventing morals on the one hand and rape on the other; and in general
preaching us to virtue whilst they lure us on to vice-what with the pull and
haul of all this, I say, we women are forever at sixes and sevens, all fussed
and rattled and torn 'twixt what we ought and what we would, and so
entirely confounded, that we never know what we think on the matter or
how much license to grant from one minute to the next; so that if a man
commence the usual strut, pat, and tweak, we may thrust him from us (if
he do not floor us and have at us by main strength); and if he let us quite
alone, we are so happy of the respite we dare not make a move; but should

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 69 ]

e'er a man approach us in all honest friendship, and look upon us as fellow
humans and not just a bum and a bosom, from eyes other than a stud-
stallion's, and after some courteous talk should propose a cordial swiving as
one might a hand of whist (instead of inviting us to whist as lecherously as
though to bed) —if, I say, e'er a man should learn to make such a request in
such a manner, his bed would break 'neath the weight of grateful women,
and he would grow gray ere his time! But in sooth 'twill never happen,"
Joan concluded, "forasmuch as 'twould mean receiving a partner and not
taking a vassal: 'tis not mere sport a man lusts after, 'tis conquest-— else
philanderers were rare as the plague and not common as the pox. Do but
ask, Ebenezer, cordially and courteously, as ye would ask a small favor from
a good friend, and what ye ask shall rarely be refused. But ye must ask, else
in our great relief at not being hard pressed for't, we shall pass ye by."

"Indeed," admitted Ebenezer, shaking his head, "it had not struck me
ere now, what a sad lot is woman's. What beasts we are!"

"Ah, well," sighed Joan, " 'tis small concern o' mine, save when I reflect
on't now and again: a whore loses little sleep on such nice questions. So
long as a man hath my price in his purse and smells somewhat more sweet
than a tanyard and leaves me in peace come morning, I shan't say him
nay nor send him off ill-pleased with his purchase. And I love a virgin as a
child loves a new pup, to make him stand and beg for't* or lie and play
dead. Off your knees, then, and to bed with ye, ere ye take a quartan ague
from the draught! There's many a trick I'll teach ye!"

So saying she held out her arms to him, and Ebenezer, breaking at once
into sweat and goose bumps from the contest between his ardor and the
cold March draughts in which for a quarter hour he'd been kneeling,
embraced her fervently.

"Dear God, is't true?" he cried. "What astonishment it is, to be granted
all suddenly in fact what one hath yearned for time out of mind in dreams!
Dear heart, what a bewilderment! No words come! My arms fail me!"

"Let not thy purse fail thee," Joan remarked, "and for the rest, leave't
to me."

"But 'fore God I love thee, Joan Toast!" Ebenezer moaned. "Can it be
you think yet of the filthy purse?"

"Do but pay me my five guineas ere ye commence," Joan said, "and then
love me 'fore God or man, 'tis all one to me,"

"You will drive me to Bedlam with your five guineas!" Ebenezer shouted.
"I love thee as never man loved woman, I swear't, and rather would I
throttle thee, or suffer myself throttled, than turn my love to mere

[y0] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

whoremongering with that accursed five guineas! I will be thy vassal; I
will fly with thee down the coasts of earth; I will deliver soul and body into
thy hands for very love; but I will not take thee for my whore while breath
is in me!"

"Ah, then, 'tis after all a fraud and deceit!" Joan cried, her eyes flashing.
'Te think to gull me with thee's and thy's and your prattle o' love and
chastity! I say pay me my fee, Eben Cooke, or I'll leave ye this minute for
ever and all; and 'tis many the hour ye'll curse your miserliness, when word
oft reaches my Johnny McEvoy!"

"I cannot/' Ebenezer said.

"Then know that I despise ye for a knave and fool!" Joan jumped from
the bed and snatched up her garments.

"And know that I love thee for my savior and inspiration!" Ebenezer
replied. "For ne'er till you came to me this night have I been a man,
but a mere dotting oaf and fop; and ne'er till I embraced thee have I
been a poet, but a shallow coxcomb and poetaster! With thee, Joan,
what deeds could I not accomplish! What verse not write! Nay, e'en should
you scorn me in your error and ne'er look on me more, I will love thee
nonetheless, and draw power and purpose from my love. For so strong
is't, that e'en unrequited it shall sustain and inspire me; but should God
grant thee wit to comprehend and receive it and return it as then you
would perforce, why, the world would hear such verses as have ne'er been
struck, and our love would stand as model and exemplar to all times! Scorn
me, Joan, and I shall be a splendid fool, a Don Quixote tilting for his
ignorant Dulcinea; but I here challenge thee— if you've life and fire and
wit enough, love me truly as I love thee, and then shall I joust with bona
fide giants and bring them low! Love me, and I swear to thee this: I shall
be Poet Laureate of England!"

"Methinks thou'rt a Bedlamite already," Joan snapped, hooking up her
dress. "As for my ignorance, I had rather be fool than scoundrel, and yet
rather scoundrel than madman, and in sooth I believe thou'rt all three in
one skin. Mayhap I'm dolt enough not to grasp this grand passion ye make
such claim to, but I've mother wit enough to see when I'm hoaxed and
cheated. My John shall hear oft."

"Ah Joan, Joan!" Ebenezer pleaded. "Are you then indeed unworthy?
For I declare to thee solemnly: no man will e'er offer thee another such
love."

"Do but offer me my rightful fee, and I'll say not a word to John: the
rest o' your offer ye may put back in your hat."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ Jl ]

"So," sighed Ebenezer, still transported, "you are unworthy! So be't, ift
must: I love thee no less for't, or for the sufferings I shall welcome in
thy name!"

"May ye suffer French pox, ye great ass!" Joan replied, and left the room
in a heat.

Ebenezer scarcely noted her departure, so full was he of his love; he
strode feverishly about the bedchamber, hands clasped behind his back,
pondering the depth and force of his new feeling. "Am I waked to the
world from a thirty-year sleep?" he asked himself. "Or is't only now I've
begun to dream? Surely none awake e'er felt such dizzy power, nor any
man in dreams such bursting life! Hi! A song!"

He ran to his writing-desk, snatched up his quill, and with little ado
penned the following song:

Not Priam for the ravagd Town of Troy,

Andromache for her bouncing Baby Boy,
Ulysses for his chaste Penelope,

Bare the Love, dear Joan, I bear for Theel

But as cold Semele pritfd Endymion,

And Phaedra sweet Hippolytus her Step-Son,

He being Virgin — so, I pray may Ye

Whom I love, love my stainless Chastity.

For 'tis no niggard Gift, my Innocence,

But one that, giv'n, defieth Recompense;
No common Jewel pluck' d from glist'ring Hoard,

But one that, taken, ne'er can be restored.

Preserv'd, my Innocence preserveth Me

From Life, from Time, from Death, from History;

Without it I must breathe Man's mortal Breath:

Commence a Life — and thus commence my Death!

When he was done composing he wrote at the bottom of the page
Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., Poet and Laureate of England, just to try the
look of it, and, regarding it, was pleased.

" Tis now but a question of time," he rejoiced. "Faith, 'tis a rare wise
man knows who he is: had I not stood firm with Joan Toast, I might well
ne'er have discovered that knowledge! Did I, then, make a choice? Nay,
for there was no I to make it! 'Twas the choice made me: a noble choice,
to prize my love o'er my lust, and a noble choice bespeaks a noble chooser.
What am I? What am I? Virgin, sir! Poet, sir! I am a virgin and a poet; less

[ 72 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

than mortal and more; not a man, but Mankind! I shall regard my innocence
as badge of my strength and proof of my calling: let her who's worthy oft
take it from me!"

Just then the servant Bertrand tapped softly on the door and entered,
candle in hand, before Ebenezer had a chance to speak.

"Should I retire now, sir?" he asked, and added with an enormous wink,
"Or will there be more visitors?"

Ebenezer blushed. "Nay,, nay, go to bed."

'Very good, sir. Pleasant dreams."

"How's that?"

But Bertrand, with another great wink, closed the door.

"Really," Ebenezer thought, "the fellow is presumptuous!" He returned
to the poem and reread it several times with a frown.

"Tis a gem," he admitted, "but there wants some final touch, . , ?

He scrutinized it line for line; at Bare the Love, dear Joan, 1 bear for
Thee he paused, furrowed his great brow, pursed his lips, squinted his eye%
tapped his foot, and scratched his chin with the feather of his quill.

"Hm," he said.

After some thought, he inked his quill $nd struck out Joan, setting in its
place the word Heart. Then he reread the whole poem.

" 'Twas the master touch!" he (declared with satisfaction. "The piece is
perfect."

8: A COLLOQUY BETWEEN MEN OF PRINCIPLE, AND
WHAT CAME OF IT

WHEN HE HAD DONE REVISING HIS POEM EBENEZER t*AID IT ON HIS

night table, undressed, went to bed, and presently resumed the sleep that
Joan Toast's visit had interrupted, for the day's events had quite fatigued
him. But again his sleep was fitful— this time it was excitement and not
despair that bothered him— and, as before, it was short-lived: he had been
beneath his quilts no more than an hour before he was waked once again
by a loud knocking at the door, which he'd forgot to latch after Joan's
departure.

"Who is't?" he called. "Bertrand! Someone's knocking!"

Before he could make a light, or even get up from the bed* the door

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [73]

was opened roughly, and John McEvoy, lantern in hand, strode into the
room. He stood beside the bed and held the light close to Ebenezer's face.
Bertrand, apparently, was asleep, for to Ebenezer's slight distress he failed
to appear.

"My five guineas, if ye please," McEvoy demanded calmly, holding out
his other hand.

Ebenezer broke at once into a mighty sweat, but he contrived to ask
hoarsely, from the bed, "How is't I owe you money? I cannot recall buying
aught of you."

"Ye do but prove your ignorance of the world," declared McEvoy, "for
the first principle o' harlotry is, that what a man buys of a whore is not so-
much her bum but her will and her time; when ye hire my Joan 'tis neither
her affair nor mine what use ye make o' her, so long as ye pay yer fee. As't
happens, ye chose to talk in lieu of swiving; 'twas a fool's choice, but 'tis
your privilege to play the fool if t please ye. Now, sir, my five guineas!"

"Ah, my friend," said Ebenezer, reminding himself grimly of his identity,
"'tis only fair to tell you, if haply Joan did not: I love her wondrously!"

" 'Tis all one, so ye pay your fee," replied McEvoy.

"That I cannot," Ebenezer said. "Your own reasoning in the matter
rules it out. For if 'tis true,, as you declare, that 'tis the rental of her will
and time that makes a woman whore, then to pay you for what of her
time she spent here would make her my whore though I did not touch her
carnally. And make her my whore I will not— nay, not were I racked for't!
I bear you no ill will, John McEvoy, nor must you think me miserly: I've
gold enough, and no fear of parting with it."

"Then pay your fee," said McEvoy.

"My dear man," Ebenezer smiled, "will you not take five— nay, six
guineas from me as an outright gift?"

"Five guineas, as a fee," repeated McEvoy.

"Where's the difference to you, should I call the sum a gift and not a
payment? 'Twill fetch no less in the market, I pledge you!"

"If't makes no difference," replied McEvoy, "then call it the fee for Joan
Toast's whoring."

"Think not it makes no difference to me" Ebenezer said. "To me 'tis
all the difference! No man makes a whore of the woman he loves, and I
love Joan Toast as never man loved woman."

"Out on't!" McEvoy scoffed. "Everything ye say proves ye know naught
whatever concerning love. Think not ye love Joan Toast, Mr. Cooke: 'tis
your love ye love, and that's but to say 'tis yourself and not my Joan. But no

[ 74 I 1™ SOT-WEED FACTOR

matter— love her or swive her, so ye pay your fee. To no man save myself
may she be aught but whore; I am a jealous man, sir, and though ye may
purchase my Joan's will and time as client, ye mayn't court it as lover."

"'Sbody, 'tis a passing odd jealousy, I swear't!" Ebenezer exclaimed.
"I ne'er have heard its like!"

"Which is to say, ye know naught o' love," said McEvoy.

Ebenezer shook his head and declared, "I cannot grasp it* Great heavens,,
man, this divine creature, this vision of all that's fair in womankind, this
Joan Toast— she is your mistress! How is't you can allow men e'en to lay
their eyes upon her, much less "

"Much less much more? How clear it is ye love yourself and not Joan!
There's naught o' the divine in Joan, my friend. She's mortal clay and
hath her share o' failings like the rest of us. As for this vision ye speak of,
'tis the vision ye love, not the woman. 'Twere impossible it could be other-
wise, for none o' ye save I e'en knows the woman."

"And yet you play her pimp!"

McEvoy laughed. "I shall tell ye a thing about yourself, Eben Cooke,
and haply ye'll recall it now and again: 'tis not simply love ye know naught
of, 'tis the entire great red worldl Your senses fail ye; your busy fancy plays
ye false and fills your head with foolish pictures. Things are not as ye see
'em, friend— the world's a tangled skein, and all is knottier than ye take it
for. You understand naught o' life: I shan't say more." He drew a document
from his pocket and gave it to Ebenezer. "Read it with haste and pay your
fee.

Ebenezer unfolded the paper and read it with mounting consternation.
It was headed To Andrew Cooke, 2nd, Gent, and commenced thus:

My dear Sir,

It is my unhappy duty to bring to your notice certain regrettable matters con-
cerning the behavior of your Son Ebenezer Cooke. . . .

The note went on to declare that Ebenezer was spending his days and
nights in the wine- and coffee-houses and the theaters, drinking, whoring,
and writing doggerel, and that he was making no effort whatever to find an
instructive post for himself as he had been directed. It concluded:

I bring this lamentable state of affairs to your attention, not alone because
it is your right as young Cooke's Father to know them, but also because
the young man in question hath added to his other vices, that of luring young
women into his bedchamber on promise of generous remuneration, only to
default on payment afterwards.

As agent for one such defrauded young lady, I find myself Mr. Cooke's creditor

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 75 ]

in the amount of five guineas, which debt he refuses to honor despite the most
reasonable pleas. I feel certain that, as the Gentleman's father, you will be
interested in the settlement of this debt either directly, by forwarding me the
young lady's fee, or indirectly, by persuading your son to settle it before the
matter receives a more general notoriety. Waiting for communication from
you upon the business, I am, sir,

yr Hmble & Ow Svt,
John McEvoy

"'Sblood, 'tis my mini" Ebenezer murmured, when he had read it
through.

"Aye, if posted," agreed McEvoy. "Do but pay your fee, and 'tis yours
to destroy. Else I mean to post it at once."

Ebenezer closed his eyes and sighed.

"Doth the thing so much matter to ye?" smiled McEvoy.

"Aye. And doth it to you?"

"Aye. It must be whore-money."

Ebenezer caught sight of his poem in the lantern-light. His features
commenced their customary dance,, and then, calming, he turned to face
McEvoy.

"It cannot be," he said. "That is my final word on't. Post thy tattling
letter if you will."

"I shall," declared McEvoy, and rose to leave.

"And append this to't, if you've a mind to," Ebenezer added. Tearing
off the signature Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., Poet & Laureate of England, he
handed McEvoy the poem.

"Such bravery," smiled his visitor, scanning it. "What is this? And
Phaedra sweet Hippolytus her Step-Son? Ye rhyme Endymion and Step-
Son?"

Ebenezer paid his critic no heed. "Twill at least belie your charge that
I write doggerel," he said.

"Endymion and Step-Son" McEvoy repeated, mating a face. "Belie't,
ye say? Marry,, sir, 'twill confirm it past question! Were I in your boots I'd
pay my whore-money and consign letter, Endymion, Step-Son, and all to
the fire." He returned the poem to Ebenezer. "Will ye not reconsider?"

"Nay."

"Ye'll go to Maryland for a whore?"

"I'd not cross the street for a whore," Ebenezer said firmly, ^ut I shall
cross the ocean for a principle! To you, haply, Joan Toast is a whore; to me
she is a principle."

[ y6 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"To me she is a woman," replied McEvoy. "To you she's a hallucination."

"What manner of artist are you," scorned Ebenezer, "that cannot see
the monstrous love which fires me?"

"What manner of artist you," retorted McEvoy, "that can't see through
it? And are ye in sooth a virgin, as Joan Toast swears?"

"And a poet," Ebenezer declared with new serenity. "Now begone, an't
please you. Do your worst!"

McEvoy scratched his nose in amusement. "I will," he promised, and
went out, leaving his host in total darkness.

Ebenezer had remained in bed throughout the conversation, for at least
three reasons: first, he had retired after Joan Toast's departure clothed in no
warmer nightshirt than his own fair skin, and, not so much from prudishness
as from shyness, he was reluctant to expose himself before another man,
even his valet, though not always (as shall be seen) before a woman; second,
even had this not been the case, McEvoy had given him little opportunity
to get up; and third, it was Ebenezer's ill fortune to be endowed with a
nervous system and a rational faculty that operated as independently of
each other as two Londoners of wholly various temperament who chance
to inhabit the same rooming house, but go blithely each his separate way
without thought of his neighbor: no matter how firm his resolve, as regards
both Joan Toast and his new-found essences, any strong emotion tended
to soak him with sweat, to rob him of muscle if not voice, and to make
him sick. Given both the determination and the opportunity, he still could
scarcely have accomplished sitting up.

His bedclothes were wet with perspiration; his stomach churned. When
McEvoy was gone he sprang out of bed to latch the door against further
visitors, but immediately upon standing erect was overcome by nausea and
had to run for the commode across the room. As soon as he was able he
slipped into his nightshirt and called for Bertrand, who this time appeared
almost at once, wigless and gowned. In one hand he held a bare wax candle,
in the other its heavy pewter holder,

"The fellow is gone," Ebenezer said. " Tis safe to show thyself." Still
weak in the knees, he sat at his writing-desk and held his head in his hands.

"Lucky for hjlm he held his temperl" Bertrand said grimly, brandishing
his candleholder.

Ebenezer smiled. "Was't thy intent to rap on the wall for silence if he
didn't?"

"On his arrogant pate, sir! I stood just without your door the entire

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [77]

while, for fear he'd leap you, and only jumped inside my room when he
left, for fear he'd spy me."

"For fear in sooth! Did you not hear my call?"

"I own I did not, sir, and beg your pardon for't. Had he knocked below
like any gentleman, he'd ne'er have got by me on that errand, I swear! Twas
your voices waked me, and when I caught the drift of your talk I dared not
intrude for fear of presuming, or leave for fear he'd assault you/'

"Marry, Bertrand!" Ebenezer said. "Thou'rt the very model of a servant!
You heard all, then?"

" Twas farthest from my mind to eavesdrop," Bertrand protested, '"but
I could scarce avoid the substance oft. What a cheat and blackguard the
pimp is, to ask five guinea for a tart you spent not two hours with! For five
guinea I could fill thy bed with trollops!"

"Nay, 'tis no cheat; McEvoy is as honest a man as I. Twas a collision of
principles, not a haggle over price." He went to fetch a robe. "Will you
make up the fire, Bertrand, and brew tea for both of us? I've small hope of
sleep this night,"

Bertrand lit the lamp from his candle, put fresh wood in the fireplace,
and blew up the embers in the grate.

"How can the wretch harm you?" he asked. " Tis unlikely a pimp could
press a law-suit!"

"He hath no need of the courts. Tis but a matter of telling my father of
the affair, and off I go to Maryland."

"For a simple business with a strumpet, sir? Marry, thou'rt not a child,
nor Master Andrew any cleric! I beg your pardon for't, sir, but your home-
place is no popish convent, if I may say so! There's much goes on there
that Miss Anna and yourself know naught of, nor old Twigg, either, for all
her sniffs and snoops."

Ebenezer frowned. "How's that? What in Heav'n do you mean, fellow?"
* "Nay, nay, spare your anger; marry, I yield to none in respect for your
father, sir! I meant naught by't at all, save that Master Andrew is a natural
man, if you follow me, like thee and me; a lusty fellow despite his age, and
—no disrespect intended— he's long a widower. A servant sees things now
and again, sir."

"A servant sees little and fancies much," Ebenezer said sharply. "Is't
your suggestion my father's a whoremonger?"

" 'Sblood, sir, nothing of the sort! He's a great man and an honest, is
Master Andrew, and I pride myself on having his confidence these many
years. Tis no accident he chose me to come to London with you, sir: I've

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

managed business of some consequence for him ere now that Mrs. Twigg
for all her haughty airs knew naught of/'

"See here, Bertrand," Ebenezer demanded with interest, "are you saying
you've been my father's pimp?"

"I'll speak no more oft, sir, an it please thee, for it seems thou'rt out of
sorts and put an ill construction on my words. All I meant to say in the
world was that were I in thy place I'd not pay a farthing for all the
scoundrel's letters to your father. The man who says he ne'er hath bought
a swiving must needs be either fairy or castrato, if he be not a liar, and
Master Andrew's none o' the three. Let the rascal say 'tis a vice with thee;
I'll swear on oath 'twas the first you've been a-whoring, to my knowledge.
No disgrace in that/' He gave Ebenezer a cup of tea and stood by the fire
to drink his own.

"Perhaps not, even if 'twere true."

"I'm certain oft," Bertrand said, gaining confidence. "You had your tart
as any man might, and there's an end on't Her pimp asked more than her
worth, and so you sent him packing. I'd advise thee to pay him not a
farthing for all his trumpeting, and Master Andrew would agree with me."

"Belike you misheard me through the door, Bertrand/' Ebenezer said.
"I did not swive the girl."

Bertrand smiled. "Ah, now, 'twas a clever enough stand to take with the
pimp, considering he roused you up ere you'd time to think; but 'twill ne'er
fool Master Andrew for a minute/'

"Nay, 'tis the simple truth! And e'en had I done so I would not pay him
a ha'penny for't. I love the girl and shan't buy her for a harlot/'

<0"N°W' that one hath the touch of greatness in it/' Bertrand declared
"Tis worthy of the cleverest blade in London! But speaking as your
adviser - "

"My adviser! Thou'rt my adviser?"

Bertrand shifted uneasily. "Aye, sir, in a manner of speaking, you under-
stand. As I said before, I pride myself that your father trusts me _ "

"Did Father send you to me as a governess? Do you report my doings
to him?"

t "Nay, nay!" Bertrand said soothingly. "I only meant, as I said before,
tas clearly no accident he named me and no other to attend ye, sir. I pride
myself 'tis a sign of his faith in my judgment. I merely meant 'twas clever
to tell the punp thou'rt in love with his tart and shan't cheapen her; but
it ye repeat the tale to Master Andrew 'twere wise to make clear 'twas but
a gambit, so as not to alarm him."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR t 79 1

"You don't believe it? Nor that I am a virgin?"

"Thou'rt a great tease, sir! I only question whether thy father would
understand raillery."

"I see thou'rt not to be convinced," Ebenezer said, shaking his head.
"No matter, I suppose. Tis not the business of five guineas will undo me
anyhow, but the other."

"Another? Marry, what a rascal!"

"Nay, not another wench; another business. Haply 'twill interest you, as
my adviser: McEvoy's tattling letter describes my place at Peter Paggen's,
that hath not improved these five years."

Bertrand set down his cup. "My dear sir, pay him his rascally guineas."

Ebenezer smiled. "What? Permit the wretch to overcharge me?"

"I've two guinea laid by, sir, in a button box in my chest. 'Tis thine
toward the debt. Only let me run to pay him, ere he posts his foul letter."

"Thy charity gladdens me,, Bertrand, and thy concern, but the principle
is the same. I shan't pay it."

"Marry, sir, then I must off to a Jew for the other three and pay it myself,
though he hold liver and lights for collateral. Master Andrew will have my
head!"

" Twill avail thee naught. Tis not five guineas McEvoy wants, but five
guineas from my hand as whore-money."

"I'faith, then I'm lost!"

"How so?"

"When Master Andrew learns how ill ye've minded his direction he'll
sack me for certain, to punish ye. What comfort hath the adviser? If things
go well 'tis the student gets the praise; if ill, 'tis the adviser gets the blame/'

"Tis in sooth a thankless office," Ebenezer said sympathetically. He
yawned and stretched. "Let us sleep out the balance of the night, now. Thy
conversation is a marvelous soporific."

Bertrand showed no sign of understanding the remark, but he rose to
leave.

"You'll see me sacked, then, ere you pay the debt?"

"I doubt me such a priceless adviser will be sacked," Ebenezer replied.
"Belike he'll send thee off with me to Maryland, to advise me."

"Gramercy, sir! Thou'rt jesting!"

"Not at all."

" 'Sheart! To perish at the hands of salvages!"

"Ah, as for that, two of us can fight 'em better than one. Good night,
now." So saying, he sent Bertrand terrified to his room and attempted, by

[ 80 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

a childish habit he had of rolling from side to side in his bed, to lull himself
to sleep. But his fancy was too much occupied with versions of the imminent
confrontation of his father and himself—versions the details of which he
altered and perfected with an artist's dispassionate care— to allow him more
than a restless somnolence.

As it turned out, there was no confrontation at all, though St. Giles
was but an easy carriage ride from where he lived. On the evening of the
second day after McEvoy's threat, a messenger came to Ebenezer's room
(from which, having abandoned Peter Paggen entirely, he had scarcely
ventured in two days) with twelve pounds in cash and a brief letter from
Andrew:

My Son: It is truly said, that Children are a certain Care, and but an uncertain
Comfort. Suffice it to say, I have learned of your vicious Condition; I shall not
sully myself by witnessing it firsthand. You shall on Pain of total and entire
Disinheritance and Disownment take Ship for Maryland on the Bark Poseidon,
sailing from Plimouth for Piscataway on April i, there to proceed straightway
to Cookes poynt and assume Managership of Maiden. It is my intention to
make a final Sojourn in the Plantations perhaps a Year hence, and I pray that
at that Time I shall find a prosperous Maiden and a regenerate Son: an Estate
worth bequeathing and an Heir worth the Bequest. It is your final Chance.

Your Father

Ebenezer was more numbed than stunned by the letter, for he'd antic-
ipated some such ultimatum.

"Marry, 'tis but a week hence!'7 he reflected with alarm. The notion
of leaving his companions just when, having determined his essence, he
felt prepared to begin enjoying them, distressed him quite; whatever fugitive
attraction the colonies had held for him fled before the prospect of actually
going there.

He showed the letter to Bertrand.

"Ah, 'tis as I thought: thy principles have undone me, I see no summons
here to my old post in St. Giles,"

"Haply 'twill come yet, Bertrand, by another messenger/'

But the servant appeared unconsoled, TfaithI Back to old Twigg! I had
almost rather brave the salvage Indians."

"I would not see thee suffer on my account," Ebenezer declared, "I
shall pay your April's wages, and you may start today to seek another post"

The valet seemed scarcely able to believe such generosity, "Bless ye, sir!
Thou'rt every inch a gentlemanl"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 8l ]

Ebenezer dismissed him and returned to his own problem. What was
he to do? During most of that day he anxiously examined various faces of
himself in his looking glass; during most of the next he composed stanzas
to Gloom and Melancholy, after the manner of II Penseroso (though
briefer and, he decided, of a different order of impact); the third he
spent abed, getting up only to feed and relieve himself. He refused
Bertrand's occasional proffered services. A change came over him: his beard
went unshaved, his drawers unchanged, his feet unwashed. How take ship
for the wild untutored colonies, now he knew himself a poet and was ready
to fire London with his art? And yet how make shift unaided in London,
penniless, in defiance of his father and at the expense of his inheritance?

"What am I to do?" he asked himself, lying unkempt in his bed on the
fourth day. It was a misty March morning, though a warm and sunny one,
and the glaring haze from outside caused his head to ache. The bedclothes
were no longer clean, nor was his nightshirt. His late fire was ashed and
cold. Eight o'clock passed, and nine, but he could not resolve to get up.
Once only, as a mere experiment, he held his breath in order to try
whether he could make himself die, for he saw no alternative; but after
a half minute he drew air frantically and did not try again. His stomach
rumbled, and his sphincters signaled their discomfort. He could think of
no reason for rising from the bed, nor any for remaining there. Ten o'clock
came and went.

Near noon, running his eyes about the room for the hundredth time
that morning, he caught sight of something that had previously escaped
him: a scrap of paper on the floor beside his writing-desk. Recognizing it,
he climbed out of bed without thinking, fetched it up, and squinted at
it in the glare,

Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., "Poet & Laureate. . . ;

The rest of the epithet was torn off, but despite its loss, or perhaps be-
cause of it, Ebenezer was suddenly inspired with such a pleasant resolve
that his spirits rose on the instant, driving three days' gloom before them
as a March breeze drives away squalls. His spine thrilled; his face flushed.
Lighting on a piece of letter paper, he addressed a salutation directly to
Charles Calvert, Third Lord Baltimore and Second Lord Proprietary of
the Province of Maryland. Your Excellency, he wrote, with the same sure
hand of some nights before:

It is my Intention to take Ship for Maryland upon the Bark Poseidon a few
Days hence, for the Purpose of managing my Father's Property, called Cooke' s
Point, in Dorchester. Yr LdshP will do me a great Honour, and Himself no

[ 82 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

ill Turn it may be, by granting me an Audience before I embark, in order that
I might discuss certain Plans of mine, such that I venture will not altogether
displease Yr LdsllP, and in order farther that I might learn, from Him most
qualified to say, where in the Province to seek the congenial Company of
Men of Breeding and Refinement, with whom to share my leisure Hours in
those most civiliz'd Pursuits of Poetry, Music and Conversation, without which
Life were a Salvag'ry, and scarce endurable. Respectfully therefore awaiting
Yr LdshP« Reply, I am,

Yr Most HmWe & Obt Svt,
Ebenezer Cooke

And after but a moment's deliberation he appended boldly to his name
the single word Poet, deeming it a pointless modesty to deny or conceal
his very essence.

"By Heav'n!" he exclaimed to himself, looking back on his recent
doldrums. "I had near slipped once again into the Abyss! Methinks 'tis a
peril I am prone to: 'tis my Nemesis, and marks me off from other men
as did the Furies poor Orestes! So be't: at least I know my dread Erinyes
for what they are and will henceforth mark their approach betimes. What
is more— thank Joan Toast!— I now know how to shield myself from their
assault/' He consulted his mirror and after some false starts, reflected this
reflection: "Life! I must fling myself into Life, escape to't, as Orestes to
the temple of Apollo. Action be my sanctuary; Initiative my shield! I shall
smite ere I am smitten; clutch Life by his horns! Patron of poets, thy
temple be the Entire Great Real World, whereto I run with arms a-stretch:
may't guard me from the Pit, and may my Erinyes sink 'neath the vertigo
I flee to be transformed to mild Eumenides!"

He then reread his letter.

"Aye," he said, "read and rejoice, Baltimore! Tis not every day your
province is blessed with a poet. But faith! Tis already the twenty-seventh
of the month! I must deliver't in person at once."

Tius resolved, Ebenezer called for Bertrand and, finding him not at
home, doffed his malodorous nightshirt and proceeded to dress himself.
Not bothering to trouble his skin with water, he slipped on his best linen
drawers, short ones without stirrups, heavily perfumed, and a clean white
day-shirt of good frieze holland, voluminous and soft, with a narrow neck-
band, full sleeves caught at the wrists with black satin ribbon, and small,
modestly frilled cuifs. Next he pulled on a pair of untrimmed black velvet
knee breeches, close in the thighs and full in the seat, and then his knitted
white silk hose, which, following the very latest fashion, he left rolled above
the knee in order to display the black ribbon garters that held them up.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 83 ]

On then with his shoes, a fortnight old, of softest black Spanish leather,
square-toed, high-heeled, and buckled, their cupid-bow tongues turned
down to flash a fetching red lining. Respectful of both the warmth and
the fashion of the day, he left his waistcoat where it hung and donned
next a coat of plum-colored serge lined with silver-gray prunella— the great
cuffs turned back to show alternate stripes of plum and silver— collarless,
tight-shouldered, and full-skirted, which he left unbuttoned from neck to
hem to show off shirt and cravat. This latter was of white muslin, the long
pendant ends finished in lace, and Ebenezer tied it loosely, twisted the
pendants ropewise, and fetched up the ends to pass through the top left
buttonhole of his open coat, Steinkirk fashion. Then came his short-sword
in its beribboned scabbard, slung low on his left leg from a well-tooled belt,
and after it his long, tight-curled white periwig, which he powdered gener-
ously and fitted with care on his pate, in its natural state hairless as an egg.
Nothing now remained but to top the periwig with his round-crowned,
broad-brimmed, feather-edged black beaver, draw on his gauntlet gloves of
fawn leather stitched in gold and silver (the cuffs edged in white lace
and lined with yellow silk), fetch up his long cane (looped with plum-
and-white ribbons like those on his scabbard), and behold the finished
product in his looking glass.

" 'Sbodikins!" he cried for very joy. "What a rascal! En garde, London!
Look lively, Life! Have at ye!"

But there was little time to admire the spectacle: Ebenezer hurried out
to the street, hired himself the services of barber and bootblack, ate a hearty
meal, and took hack at once for the London house of Charles Calvert,
Lord Baltimore.

9: EBENEZER'S AUDIENCE WITH LORD BALTIMORE,
AND HIS INGENIOUS PROPOSAL TO THAT GENTLEMAN

TO HIS EXTREME DELIGHT AND CONSIDERABLE SURPRISE, IN A MATTER

of minutes after Ebenezer had presented himself at Lord Baltimore's town
house and had sent his message in by a house-servant, word was sent back
to him that Charles would receive the visitor in his library, and Ebenezer
was ushered not long afterwards into the great man's presence.
Lord Baltimore was seated in an enormous leather chair beside the hearth,

[ 84 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

and, though he did not rise to greet his visitor, he motioned cordially for
Ebenezer to take the chair opposite him. He was an old man, rather small-
framed and tight-skinned despite his age, with a prominent nose, a thin
white mustache, and large, unusually bright brown eyes; he looked, it oc-
curred to Ebenezer, like an aged and ennobled Henry Burlingame. He
was dressed more formally and expensively than Ebenezer, but— as the latter
observed at once— not so fashionably: in fact, some ten years behind the
times. His wig was a campaigner, full but not extremely long, its tight curls
terminating before either shoulder in pendulous corkscrewed dildos; his
cravat was of loosely-tied, lace-edged linen; his coat was rose brocade lined
with white alamode, looser in the waist and shorter in the skirt than was
the current preference, and the unflapped pockets were cut horizontally
rather than vertically and set low to the hem. The sleeves reached nearly
to the wrists, returned a few inches to show their white linings stitched in
silver, and opened at the back with rounded hound's-ear corners. The
side vents, cut hip high, were edged with silver buttons and sham button-
holes, and the right shoulder boasted a knot of looped silver ribbons. Be-
neath the coat were a waistcoat of indigo armozine, which he wore com-
pletely buttoned, and silk breeches to match: one saw no more of his
shirt than the dainty cuffs of white cobweb lawn. What is more, his garters
were hidden under the roll of his hose, and the tongues of his shoes were
high and square. He held Ebenezer's letter in his hand and squinted at
it in the dim light from the heavily-curtained windows as though re-exam-
ining its contents.

"Ebenezer Cooke, is't?" he said by way of commencing the conversa-
tion. "Of Cooke's Point, in Dorchester?" His voice, while still in essence
forceful, had that uncertain flutter which betrays the onset of senility.
Ebenezer bowed slightly in acknowledgment and took the chair indicated
by his host.

"Andrew Cooke's son?" asked Charles, peering at his guest.

"The same, sir," Ebenezer replied,

"I knew Andrew Cooke in Maryland," reflected Charles. "If memory
serves me rightly, 'twas in 1661, the year my father made me Governor of
the Province, that I licensed Andrew Cooke to trade there. But I've not
seen him for many years and haply wouldn't know him now, or he me."
He sighed. "Life's a battle that scars us all, victor and vanquished alike."

"Aye," Ebenezer agreed readily, "but 'tis the stuff of living to fight it,
and take't by storm, and your good soldier wears his scars with pride, win
or lose, so he got 'em bravely in honest combat."

"I doubt not," murmured Charles, and retreated to the letter. "How's

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 85 ]

this, now/' he remarked: "Ebenezer Cooke, Poet. What might that mean,
pray? Can it be you earn your bread by versifying? Or you're a kind of
minstrel, belike, that wanders about the countryside a-begging and recit-
ing? Tis a trade I know little of, I confess't"

"Poet I am," answered Ebenezer with a blush, "and no mean one it
may be; but not a penny have I earned by't, nor will I ever. The muse
loves him who courts her for herself alone, and scorns the man who'd pimp
her for his purse's sake."

"I daresay, I daresay," said Charles. "But is-t not customary, when a man
tack some bunting to his name to wave like a pendant in the public breeze,
that he show thereby his calling and advertise it to the world? Now, did
I read here Ebenezer Cooke, Tinker, I'd likely hire you to patch my pots;
if Ebenezer Cooke, Physician, I'd send you the rounds of my household,
to purge and tonic the lot; if Ebenezer Cooke, Gentleman, br Esquire, I'd
presume you not for hire,, and ring in my man to fetch you brandy. But
Poet, now: Ebenezer Cooke, Poet. What trade is that? How doth one deal
with you? What work doth one put you to?"

" Tis that very matter I wish to speak of," said Ebenezer, unruffled by
the twitting. "Know, sir, that though 'tis no man's living to woo the muse,
'tis yet some men's calling, and so 'twas not recklessly I tacked on my name
the title Poet: 'tis of no moment what I do; poet is what I am."

"As another might sign himself Gentleman?" asked Charles.

"Precisely."

"Then 'tis not for hire you sought me out? You crave no employment?*

"Hire I do not seek," Ebenezer declared. "For as the lover craves of his
beloved naught save her favor, which to him is reward sufficient, so craves
the poet no more from his muse than happy inspiration; and as the fruit
of lover's labor is a bedded bride, and the sign oft a crimsoned sheet, so
the poet's prize is a well-turned verse, and the sign thereof a printed page.
To be sure, if haply the lass bring with her some dowry, 'twill not be scorned,
nor will what pence come poetwards from, his publishing. Howbeit, these
are mere accidents, happy but unsought."

"Why, then," said Charles, fetching two pipes from a rack over the fire-
place, "I believe we may call't established that you are not for hire. Let's
have a pipe on't, and then pray state your business."

The two men filled and lit their pipes, and Ebenezer returned to his
theme.

"Hire I care naught for," he repeated, "but as for employment, there's
another matter quite, and the very sum and substance of my visit. You
enquired a moment past, What trade is the poet's, and to what work

[86] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

shall he be put? For answer let me ask you, sir, by'r leave— would the world
at large know aught of Agamemnon, or fierce Achilles, or crafty Odysseus,
or the cuckold Menelaus, or that entire circus of strutting Greeks and
Trojans, had not great Homer rendered 'em to verse? How many battles
of greater import are lost in the dust of history, d'you think, for want of
a poet to sing 'em to the ages? Full many a Helen blooms one spring and
goes to the worm forgot; but let a Homer paint her in the grand cosmetic
of his verse, and her beauty boils the blood of twenty centuries! Where lies
a Prince's greatness, I ask you? In his feats on the field of battle, or the
downy field of love? Why, 'tis but a generation's work to forget 'em for
good and all! Nay, I say 'tis not in the deeds his greatness lies, but in
their telling. And who's to tell 'em? Not the historian, for be he ne'er so
dev'lish accurate, as to how many hoplites had Epaminondas when he
whipped the Spartans at Leuctra, or what was the Christian name of
Charlemagne's barber, yet nobody reads him but his fellow chroniclers and
his students— the one from envy, t'other from necessity. But place deeds
and doer in the poet's hands, and what comes oft? Lo, the crook'd nose
grows straight, the lean shank fleshes out, French pox becomes a bedsore;
shady deeds shed their tarnish, bright grow brighter; and the whole is
musicked into tuneful rhyme, arresting conceit, and stirring meter, so's to
stick in the head like Greensleeves and move the heart like Scripture!"

"Tis clear as day," said Charles with a smile, "that the poet is a useful
member of a Prince's train."

"And what's true for a prince is true for a principality," Ebenezer went
on, stirred by his own eloquence. "What were Greece without Homer,
Rome without Virgil, to sing their glories? Heroes die, statues break, em-
pires crumble; but your Iliad laughs at time, and a verse from Virgil still
rings true as the day 'twas struck. Who renders virtue palatable like the poet,
and vice abhorrent, seeing he alone provides both precept and example?
Who else bends nature to suit his fancy and paints men better or worse
to suit his purpose? What sings like lyric, praises like panegyric, mourns
like elegiac, wounds like Hudibrastic verse?"

"Naught, that I can name," said Charles, "and you have quite persuaded
me that a man's most useful friend and fearsome foe is the poet. Prithee
now, fellow, dispense with farther preamble and deliver me your business
plainly/'

"Very well," said Ebenezer, planting his cane between his knees and
gripping its handle firmly. "Would you say, sir, that Maryland boasts a sur-
feit of poets?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 87 ]

"A surfeit of poets?" repeated Charles, and drew thoughtfully upon his
pipe. "Well, now, since you ask, I think not. Nay, in good faith I must
confess, entre nous, there is no surfeit of poets in Maryland. Not a bit oft.
Why, Fd wager one might walk the length and breadth of St. Mary's City
on a May afternoon and not cross the tracks of a single poet, they're that
rare."

"As I reckoned/' said Ebenezer. "Would you go so far as to suppose,
even, that I might be hard put to't, once I establish myself in Maryland,
to find me four or five fellow-planters to match a couplet with, or trade
a rhyme?"

" Tis not impossible," admitted Charles.

"I guessed as much. And now, sir, if I might: would't be mere gross
presumption and vanity for me to suppose, that haply I shall be the ab-
solute first, premier, unprecedented, and genuine original poet to set foot
on the soil of Terra Marine? First to pay court to the Maryland Muse?"

" 'Tis not in me to deny," replied Charles, "that should there breathe
such a wench as this Maryland Muse, you may well have her maidenhead."

"Faith!" cried Ebenezer joyously. "Only think on't! A province, an en-
tire people— all unsung! What deeds forgot, what gallant men and women
lost to time! 'Sblood, it dizzies me! Trees felled, towns raised, a very nation
planted in the wilds! Foundings, strugglings, triumphs! Why, 'tis work for
a Virgil! Think, m'lord, only think on't: the noble house of Calvert, the
Barons Baltimore— builders of nations, bringers of light, fructifiers of the
wilderness! A glorious house and history still unmusicked for the world's
delight! Marry, 'tis virgin territory!"

"Many's the fine thing to be said of Maryland," Charles agreed. "But
to speak plainly, I fear me that virgins are rare as poets there."

"Prithee do not jest!" begged Ebenezer. " 'Twere an epic such as ne'er
was penned! The Marylandiad, b'm'faith!"

"How's that?" For all his teasing manner, Charles had grown thoughtful
in the course of Ebenezer's outburst.

"The Marylandtad!" repeated Ebenezer, and declaimed as from a title-
page: "An epic to out-epic epics: the history of the princely house of Charles
Calvert, Lord Baltimore and Lord Proprietary of the Province of Maryland,
relating the heroic founding of that province! The courage and persever-
ance of her settlers in battling barb'rous nature and fearsome salvage to
wrest a territory from the wild and transform it to an earthly paradise! The
majesty and enlightenment of her proprietors, who like kingly gardeners
fostered the tender seeds of civilization in their rude soil, and so hus-

[ 88 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

banded and cultivated them as to bring to fruit a Maryland beauteous be-
yond description; verdant, fertile, prosperous, and cultured; peopled with
brave, men and virtuous women, healthy, handsome, and refined: a Mary-
land, in short, splendid in her past, majestic in her present, and glorious
in her future^ the brightest jewel in the fair crown of England, owned and
ruled to the benefit of both by a family second to none in the recorded
history of the universal world— the whole done into heroic couplets, printed
on linen, bound in calf, stamped in gold"— here Ebenezer bowed with a
flourish of his beaver— "and dedicated to Your Lordship!"

"And signed?" asked Charles.

Ebenezer rose to his feet and beamed upon his host, one hand on his
cane and the other on his hip.

"Signed Ebenezer Cooke, Gentleman," he replied: "Poet and Laureate
of the Province of Maryland!"

"Ah," said Charles. "Poet and Laureate, now: 'tis a new bit of bunting
you'd add to your name."

"Only think how 'twould redound to Your Lordship's credit," urged
Ebenezer. "The appointment would prove at a single stroke both the
authority and the grace of your rule, for 'twould give the Province the
flavor of a realm and the refinement of a court to have a bona fide laureate
sing her praises and record in verse her great moments; and as for the
Marylandiad itself, 'twould immortalize the Barons Baltimore, and make
Aeneases of 'em all! Moreover, 'twould paint the Province as she stands
today in such glowing colors as to lure the finest families of England to
settle there; 'twould spur the inhabitants to industry and virtue, to keep
the picture true as I paint it; in sum, 'twould work to the enhancement
of both the quality and the value of the colony, and so proportionately
ennoble, empower, and enrich him who owns and rules her! Is't not a
formidable string of achievements?"

At this Charles burst into such a fit of laughing that he choked on his
pipe smoke, watered at the eyes, and came near to losing his campaigner;
it required the spirited back-thumping of two body servants, who stood
nearby, to restore his composure.

"Oh dear!" he cried at last, daubing at his eyes with a handkerchief. "An
achievement indeed, to ennoble and enrich him who rules Maryland! I'm
sorry to say, Master Poet, that that fellow already maintains himself a
laureate to sing him! There's no ennobling him beyond his present station,
and as for enriching him, I venture I've done my share of that and more!
Oh dear! Oh dear!"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 89 ]

"How is that?" asked Ebenezer, all bewildered.

''My good man, is't that you were born yesterday? Know you naught of
the true state o' the world?"

"Surely 'tis thy province!" exclaimed Ebenezer.

"Surely 'twas my province," corrected Charles with a wry smile, "and
the Barons Baltimore were her True and Absolute Lords Proprietary, more
often than not, from the day she was chartered till just three years ago. I
get my quit-rents yet, and a miserable bit of port revenue, but for the rest,
'tis King William's province these days, sir, and Queen Mary's, not mine.
Why not take your proposal to the Crown?"

"Marry, I knew naught oft!" said Ebenezer. "Might I ask for what cause
your Lordship retired from rule? Was't haply your desire to spend quietly
the evening of life? Or belike 'twas sheer devotion to the Crown? Egad,
what spaciousness of character!"

"Stay, stay," cried Charles, shaking again with mirth, "else I must summon
my man again to pound the lights out of me! Hey! Ha!" He sighed deeply
and beat his chest with the flat of his hand. When he had regained control
of himself he said, "I see you are all innocent of Maryland's history, and
will plunge into a place not knowing the whys and wherefores oft, or who
stands for what. You came to do me a favor, so you declare, and— by
Heav'n!— enrich and ennoble me: very well, then, permit me to do you
one in return, which will add not a farthing to your estate, but may some-
day haply save you another such wasted hour: by your leave, Mister Cooke,
I shall sketch you shortly the history of this Maryland, which,, like the gift
of a salvage, was first bestowed and then snatched back. Will you hear it?"

" 'Tis my pleasure and honor," answered Ebenezer, who, however, was
too crestfallen, after Charles's reaction to his proposal, to relish greatly a
lesson in history.

10: A BRIEF RELATION OF THE MARYLAND
PALATINATE, ITS ORIGINS AND STRUGGLES FOR
SURVIVAL, AS TOLD TO EBENEZER BY HIS HOST

" 'TIS TRULY SAID," CHARLES BEGAN, "UNEASY LIES THE HEAD THAT WEARS

the crown, inasmuch as Envy and covetoiLsne$s are ne'er satisfied. Mary-
land's mine by law and by right, yet her history is the tale of my family's

[90] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

struggle to preserve her, and of the plots of countless knaves to take her
from us— chief among them Black Bill Claiborne and a very antichrist
named John Coode, who plagues me yet.

"My grandfather, George Calvert, as you may know, was introduced to
the court of James I as private secretary to Sir Robert Cecil, and after
that great man's death was appointed-clerk to the Privy Council and twice
Commissioner to Ireland. He was knighted in 1617, and when Sir Thomas
Lake was sacked as Secretary of State (owing to the free tongue of his
wife), my grandfather was named to replace him, despite the fact that
the Duke of Buckingham, James's favorite, wanted the post for his friend
Carleton, the Ambassador to the Netherlands. I have cause to believe that
Buckingham took this as an affront— the more because James sent him
personally to notify Grandfather of his preferment— and became the first
significant enemy to our house.

"What an ill time to be Secretary of State! Twas in 1619, remember:
the Thirty Years' War had just commenced and was spreading all over
the continent; James had emptied our treasury; we hadn't a single strong
ally! 'Twas a choice 'twixt Spain and France, and to choose one was to
alienate the other. Buckingham favored Spain, and my grandfather sup-
ported him. What could seem wiser, I ask you? Marrying Prince Charles to
the Infanta Maria would bind Spain to us forever; Maria's dowry would
fill the treasury; and by supporting the King and Buckingham my grand-
father would prove his loyalty to the one and shame the resentment of
the other! I firmly believe, sir, that were I in his place I should have chosen
the same course. The match was unpopular, to be sure, among the Prot-
estants, and Grandfather was given the odious chore (I think at Bucking-
ham's urging) of defending it to a hostile Parliament— you can be sure
his enemies multiplied! But 'twas the part of wisdom: no man could have
guessed the treachery of King Philip and his ambassador Gondomar, who
lured us to alienate France, alienate the German Protestant princea, alien-
ate even James's son-in-law Frederick and our own House of Commons,
only to break off negotiations at the last minute and leave us virtually
helpless!"

"He was an infamous wretch, that Gondomar," Ebenezer agreed po-
litely.

"That, of course, together with his conversion to the Church of Rome,
which he announced shortly after, ended Grandfather's public career, for
he was not a man to alter course before every fickle wind of expedience,
as did Buckingham and the court, but followed honorably the dictates of

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Conscience and Reason. Despite the King's entreaties he retired from office,
and as reward for his loyalty James named him Baron of Baltimore in the
Kingdom of Ireland.

"From then till his death he devoted himself to colonizing America. In
1622 James had patented him the southeastern peninsula of Newfound-
land, and my grandfather, deceived by lying reports of the place, put a
good part of his fortune into a settlement called Avalon and went to live
there himself. But the climate was intolerable, for one thing, and det-
rimental both to crops and health. What's more, the French— with whom,
thanks to Buckingham's statesmanship, we were at war— were forever
snatching our vessels and molesting our fishermen; and as if this were not
trouble enough, certain rascally Puritan ministers spread word in the Privy
Council that Popish priests were being smuggled into Avalon to undermine
the Church of England there. At length my grandfather begged King
Charles for a grant farther south, in the dominion of Virginia. The King
wrote in reply that Grandfather should abandon his plans and return to
England, but ere the letter was received Grandfather had already removed
to Jamestown with his family and forty colonists. There he was met by
Governor Pott and his Council (including the blackguard William Clai-
borne, archenemy of Maryland, who for very spleen and treachery hath
no equal in the history of the New World), all of 'em hostile as salvages
and bent on driving Grandfather away, for fear Charles would grant him
the whole of Virginia out from under 'em. As if he were some upstart
and not late Privy Councillor to the King, they pressed him to swear the
oath of supremacy, knowing full well that as a good Catholic he would
perforce refuse. Not e'en the King had required it of him, and 'twas in
the authority of neither Pott nor Claiborne nor any other rascal in Virginia
to administer it, but demand it they did, nonetheless, and were like to set
bullies and ruffians upon him when he would not swear't."

"Inequity!" said Ebenezer.

"Iniquity!" amended Charles. "So hardly did they use him, that he was
forced to leave wife and family in Jamestown, and after exploring the
coast for awhile he returned to England and asked Charles for the Carolina
territory, south of the James River to Chowan and westward to the moun-
tains. The charter was drawn, but ere 'twas granted who should appear in
England but good Master Claiborne, who straightway commences to scheme
and intrigue against it. To avoid dispute, Grandfather nobly relinquished
Carolina and applied instead for land north of Virginia, on both sides of
the Bay of Chesapeake. Charles tried in vain to persuade him to live at

[92] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

ease in England and labor no more with grants and colonies, for that Grand-
father was by this time broken in health from the rigors of Avalon, dis-
pirited by his contests with intriguers and bigots, and well-nigh impoverished
by his failures. 'Twas e'en implied that his favor with the crown would
be increased to make up for his losses. But Grandfather would have none
of such idleness and at last prevailed upon the King to make the grant,
which he would name Crescentia, but which the King called Terra Mariae,
or Mary-Land, after Henrietta Maria, the Queen."
"Nobly done."

"A charter was writ up then, the like of which for authority and amplitude
had ne'er been composed by the Crown of England. It granted to my
grandfather all the land from the Potomac River on the south to Latitude
Forty on the north, and from the Atlantic west to the meridian of the
Potomac's first fountain. To distinguish her above all other regions in the
territory, Maryland was named a Province, a county palatine, and over it
we Barons Baltimore were made and decreed the true and absolute Lords
and Proprietaries. We had the advowsons of churches; we had authority
to enact laws and create courts-baron and courts-leet to enforce 'em; we
could punish miscreants e'en to the taking of life or member; we could

confer dignities and titles "

"Ah," said Ebenezer, listening in awe.

"—we could fit out armies, make war, levy taxes, patent land, trade

abroad, establish towns and ports of entry "

"Mercy!"

"In short," Charles declared, "for the tribute of two Indian arrows per
annum, Maryland was ours in free and common socage, to manage as we
pleased; and what's more 'twas laid down in the charter that peradventure
any word, clause, or sentence in't were disputed, it must be read so's most
to benefit us, and there's an end on'tl"
"Ffaith, it dizzies me!"

"Aye, 'twas' a mighty charter, and fit reward to George Calvert for a
life of loyal and thankless service. But ere it passed the Great Seal, Grand-
father died, wdrn out at a mere fifty-two years of age, and the charter
passed to his son Cecil, my own dear father, who thus in 1632, when he
was but twenty-six, became Second Lord Baltimore and First Lord Pro-
prietary of the Province of Maryland. Straightway he set to fitting out ves-
sels and rounding up colonists, to what a hue and a cry from Black Bill
Claiborne! To what a gnashing of teeth and tearing of hair amongst the
members of the old Virginia Company, whose charter had long since been

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 93 ]

revoked! They would noise it in Cheapside that Father's great powers de-
prived the people of their liberty, and bruit it in Bankside that the Mary-
landers were given such a surfeit of liberty as to discontent the settlers in
Virginia! They would vow in Limehouse that the Ark and the Dove were
fitting out to carry nuns to Spain, and swear in Kensington 'twas to ferry
Spanish soldiers that Father rigged 'em. So numerous and crafty were his
enemies, that Father must needs stay behind in London to preserve his
rights and trust the voyage to my uncles Leonard and George, who set
out from Gravesend for Maryland on October 18, 1633. But no sooner
doth the Ark weigh anchor than one of Claiborne's spies, hoping to
scuttle us, runs to the Star Chamber and reports we're not cleared through
customs, and our crew hath not sworn the oath of allegiance. Secretary
Coke sends couriers to Admiral Pennington, in the Straits off Sandwich,
to halt us, and back we're sent to London."

"Foul connivance!"

"After a month of haranguing, Father cleared away the charges as false
and malicious, and off we went again. So's not to give Claiborne farther
ammunition, we loaded our Protestants at Gravesend* swpre 'em their oath
off Tilbury, and then sailed down the Channel to the Isle of Wight to load
our Catholics and a brace of Jesuit priests."

"Very clever," Ebenezer said a little uncertainly.

"Then, by Heav'n, off we sail for Maryland at last, with instructions from
Father not to hold our masses in the public view, not to dispute religion
with the Protestants, not to anchor under the Virginians' guns at Port Com-
fort but to lie instead over by Accomac on the Eastern Shore, and not to
have aught to do with Captain Claibome and his people for the first year.

"With the salvages, a nation of Piscataways, we had no quarrel, for they
were happy enough to enlist our defense against their enemies the Seneques
and Susquehannoughs: 'twas the fiend Claiborne, more evil than a score
of salvages, who caused our trouble! This Claiborne was a factor for Clo-
berry and Company, a Councillor of Virginia after her charter was re-
voked, and Secretary of State for the Dominion by appointment of Charles
I, who was easily misled. He ran a fur trade with the Susquehanaoughs
along the Chesapeake, and for that reason had early looked on my grand-
father as a threat to his fortunes. His main interest was Kent Island, halfway
up the Chesapeake, where his trading-post was situated: he'd rather have
surrendered an arm than Kent Island, though 'twas clearly within our grant."

'What did he do?" asked Ebenezer.

"What doth Mr. Claiborne do? Why, says he to himself, Doth not

[94] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Baltimore's charter grant him the land hactemis inculta— Tiitherto unculti-
vated?' And didn't he give up claim to Accomac when 'twas shown the
Virginians had already settled there? Then he must give up Kent Island
too, for my traders beat him to't! Thus he pled to the Lords Commissioners
for Plantations. But mark you, this accursed hactenus inculta was meant
as mere description of the land; 'tis the common language of charters, and
not intended as a condition of the grant. And truth to tell, Claibome's
traders had not tilled the Island at that: they bartered their ware for corn
to live on as well as furs for Cloberry and Company. The Lords Commis-
sioners disallowed his claim, but give up Kent Island he would not. The
Marylanders land in March of 1634— fifty-nine years ago this month-
settle at St. Mary's, and inform Claiborne that Kent Island is theirs; he
will neither swear allegiance to the Proprietary nor take title to Kent
from him,, but asks the Virginia Council what to do. You may depend on't
he doth not tell 'em of the Lords Commissioners' ruling, and news travels
slow from the Privy Council to America; and so they tell him to hold fast,
and that he doth, inflaming all whose ears he can catch against my father.

"Uncle Leonard, in St. Mary's, lets Claibome's year of grace expire and
then commands him to acknowledge Father's rights or suffer imprisonment
and confiscation of the Island. King Charles orders Governor Harvey of
Virginia to protect us from the Indians and allow free trade 'twixt the
colonies, and at the same time, being misled by Claibome's agents to
believe Kent Island outside our patent, he orders Father not to molest
Claiborne! Now Harvey was a right enough Christian man, rest his soul,
willing to live and let live; therefore, our Claiborne, who had no use for
such peaceableness, had long led a faction aimed at unseating the poor
man and driving him from the colony. Thus when Harvey in obeying the
King's order declares his readiness to trade with Maryland, the Virginians
rise up in a rage against him and declare they'd sooner knock their cattle
on the head than sell 'em to us.

"Then 'twas open warfare. Uncle Leonard seizes one of Claibome's
pinnaces in the Patuxent River and arrests her master Thomas Smith for
trading without a license from Father. Claiborne arms a shallop and com-
missions her captain to attack any Maryland vessel he meets. Uncle Leonard
sends out two pinnaces to engage him, and after a bloody fight in the
Pocomoke River, on the Eastern Shore, the shallop surrenders. Two weeks
later another Claiborne vessel under command of the same Tom Smith
fights it out in Pocomoke Harbor. Poor Governor Harvey by this time is
under such fire from his Council that he flies to England for safety.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 95 ]

"Meanwhile Uncle Leonard cuts off the Kent Islanders completely, and
the land being altogether inculta, they commence to starve. Father points
this out to Cloberry and Company, and so persuades them that they pre-
tend no farther title to Kent but send a new attorney to Maryland, with
authority to supersede Claiborne. The devil finally yields, asking only that
the new man, George Evelyn, not deliver Kent Island to the Marylanders;
but Evelyn refuses to promise, and so Claiborne withdraws to London,
where he is sued by Cloberry and charged with mutiny by Governor Harvey.
Furthermore, Evelyn proceeds to attach all of Claiborne's property in Vir-
ginia in the name of Cloberry and Company.

" 'Twas no more than the man deserved," Ebenezer said.

"He saw we'd got the better of him for the nonce, and so he tried a
new tack; he buys him Palmer's Island from his cronies the Susquehan-
noughs, this being in the head of the Chesapeake where their river joins
it, and sets him up a new trading-post there, pretending he's outside our
patent. Then he petitions Charles to forbid Father from molesting him
and further asks— with a plain face, mind!— for a grant to all the land for
twelve leagues either side the Susquehannough River, extending south-
ward down the Bay to the ocean and northward to the Grand Lake of
Canada!"

"You don't tell me!" cried Ebenezer in alarm, though he hadn't the
faintest picture of the geography referred to.

"Aye," nodded Charles. "The man was mad! 'Twould have given him
a strip of New England twenty-four leagues in breadth and near three hun-
dred in length, plus the entire Chesapeake and three fourths of Maryland!
'Twas his hope to fool the King once more as he'd done in the past, but
the Lords Commissioners threw out his petition. Evelyn then acknowledged
Father's title to Kent, and Uncle Leonard named him Commander of the
Island. He attempted to persuade the Islanders to apply to Father for title
to their land and might have won them over,, were't not that the rascally
Tom Smith is established there, along with Claiborne's brother-in-law, and
betwixt the two some armed resistance is mustered against Evelyn. There
was naught for't then but to reduce 'em for good and all, the more since
word had it that Claiborne and Tom Smith were fortifying Palmer's Island
as well. Uncle Leonard himself led two expeditions against the islands, re-
duced them, jailed Smith and John Boteler— Claiborne's kin— and confis-
cated all of Claiborne's property in the Province."

"I trust that chastened the knave!"

"For a time/' Charles replied. "He got him an island in the Bahamas

[96] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

in 1638, and we saw none of him for four or five years. As for Smith and
Boteler, we had 'em jailed, but since the Assembly had never yet convened,
we had no jury to indict 'em, no law to try 'em under, and no court to
try 'em in!"

"How did you manage it?" asked Ebenezer. "Pray don't tell me you
turned them free!"

"Why, we convened the Assembly as a grand inquest to bring the in-
dictment, then magicked 'em into a court to try the case and find the
prisoners guilty. Uncle Leonard then sentences Smith to hang, the court
becomes an Assembly again and passes his sentence as a bill (since we'd
had no law to try the case under), and Uncle Leonard commutes the sen-
tence to insure that no injustice hath been done. As for Boteler, he was
let off with a light sentence."

" Twas a brilliant maneuver!" declared Ebenezer. "A coup de mdttre!"

" 'Twas but the commencement of our woes," said Charles. "No sooner
was the Assembly convened than they demanded the right to enact laws,
albeit the charter plainly reserved that right for the Proprietary, requiring
only the assent of the freemen. Father resisted for a time but had shortly
to concede, at least for the nonce, in order to avoid a mutiny ere the
colony was firmly planted. Howbeit, his acquiescence on this point, me-
thinks, was our undoing, inasmuch as from that day forward the Assembly
was at odds with us, and played us false, and lost no chance to diminish
our power and aggrandize their own."

He sighed.

"And as if this weren't sufficient harassment, 'twas about this time we
learned that the Jesuit missionaries, who since the hour the Ark landed
had been converting Piscataways by the score, had all the while been
taking in return large tracts of land in the name of the Church; and one
fine day they declare to us their intent to hold this enormous territory in-
dependent of the Proprietary!, They knew Father was Catholic and felt
themselves a safe distance from the English praemunire writ, and so an-
nounced that canon law held full sway in the province, and that by the
Papal Bull In Coena Domini they and their fraudulent landholdings were
exempt from the common law!"

"Ah God, such ingrates!" said Ebenezer.

"What they were ignorant of," Charles continued, "was that Grandfather,
ere he turned Catholic, had seen his fill of Jesuitry in Ireland, when James
sent him to investigate the discontent there, 'Twas the Jesuits were foment-
ing rebellion, and, e'en after turning to Rome, he held no love for 'em

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [97]

and warned Father of their subtleties. Father, then, to nip't in the bud
ere the Jesuits snatch the whole Province on the one hand, as Uncle
Leonard feared, or the Protestants use the incident as excuse for an anti-
Papist insurrection on the other— Father, I say, applied to Rome to recall
the Jesuits and send him secular priests instead; and after some years of
dispute the Propaganda ordered it done.

"Next came Indian trouble. The Susquehannoughs to the north and
the Nanticokes on the Eastern Shore had always raided the other tribes
now and again, being hunters and not farmers. But after 1640, for one
cause or another, they took to attacking plantations here and there in the
Province, and there was talk of their stirring up our friends the Piscataways
to join 'em in a wholesale massacre. Uncle Leonard applied to Governor
Berkeley of Virginia to join him in an expedition to reduce the salvages,
but Berkeley's Council refused to help us: small matter to them if every
soul in Maryland lost his scalp! Some said 'twas the French behind it all;
some alleged 'twas the work of the Jesuits; but I believe 'twas the scheming
hand of Bill Claibome at work. Nay, I am sure oft!"

"Claiborne!" said Ebenezer. "How is that? Did I not mishear you, Clai-
borne was hid somewhere in the Bahamas!"

"Aye, so he was. But in 1643, what with the Jesuit trouble, and the
Indian trouble,, and some dissension in the colony over the civil war 'twixt
Charles and the Parliament, Uncle Leonard returned to London to discuss
the affairs of the Province with Father, and no sooner did he sail than
Claiborne commenced slipping up the Bay in secret, trying to stir up
sedition amongst the Kent Islander?. 'Twas about this time one Richard
Ingle— a sea-captain, atheist, and traitor— puts into St. Mary's with a mer-
chantman called the Reformation, drinks himself drunk, and declares to
all and sundry that the King is no king, that had he Prince Rupert aboard
he'd flog him at the capstan and be damned to him, and that he'd take
off the head of any royalist who durst gainsay him!"

"Treason!" Ebenezer exclaimed.

"So said our man Giles Brent, who was Governor against Uncle Leonard's
return; he jailed Ingle and confiscated his ship. But as quick as we clap
the blackguard in irons he's set loose by order of our own Councilman,
Captain Cornwaleys, restored to his ship, and let go free as a fish without
clearing his vessel or paying his debts!"

"I am astonished."

"Now, this Cornwaleys was a soldier and had lately led expeditions to
make peace with the Nanticokes and drive back the Susquehannoughs,

[.98 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

despite the great scarcity of powder and shot in the Province. When we
impeached him for freeing Ingle, 'twas said in his defense he'd exacted
promise from the scoundrel to supply us a barrel of powder and four hun-
dredweight of shot for the defense of the Province— and sure enough the
rascal returns soon after, cursing and assaulting all he meets, and pledges
the ammunition as bail against a future trial. But ere we see a ball oft,
off he sails again, flaunting clearance and port-dues, and takes his friend
Cornwaleys as passenger.

"'Twas soon clear, to our horror, that Ingle and Claiborne, our two
worst enemies, had leagued together to do us in, using the English Civil
War as alibi. Claiborne landed at Kent Island, displayed a false parchment,
and swore 'twas his commission from the King to command the Island.
At the same time, the roundhead Ingle storms St. Mary's with an armed
ship and his own false parchment, which he calls letters of marque from
the Parliament; he reduces the city, drives Uncle Leonard to flee to Virginia,
and so with Claiborne's aid claims the whole of Maryland, which for the
space of two years suffers total anarchy. He pillages here, plunders there,
seizes property; steals the very locks and hinges of every housedoor, and
snatches e'en the Great Seal of Maryland itself, it being forty poundsworth
of good silver. He does not stick e'en at the house and goods of his savior
Cornwaleys but plunders 'em with the rest, and then has Comwaleys
jailed in London as his debtor and a traitor to bootl As a final cut he swears
to the House of Lords he did it all for conscience's sake, forasmuch as
Cornwaleys and the rest of his victims were wicked Papists and malignantsl"

"I cannot comprehend it," confessed Ebenezer.

"In 1646. Uncle Leonard mustered a force with the help of Governor
Berkeley and recaptured St. Mary's and soon all of Maryland— Kent Island
being the last to submit The Province was ours again, though Uncle
Leonard's pains were ill rewarded, for he died a year after."

"Hi!" cried Ebenezer. "What a struggle! I hope with all my heart you
were plagued no more by the likes of Claiborne but enjoyed your Province
in peace and harmony!"

" Twas our due, by Heav'n! It should have been wholly clear to all by
then, that as the proverb hath it, Tis better to rule than be ruled by the
rout. But not three years passed ere the pot of faction and sedition boiled
again."

"I groan to hear it."

" Twas mainly Claiborne again, this time in league with Oliver Crom-
well and the Protestants, though he'd lately been a swaggering royalist."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [99]

"I swear," said Ebenezer, "the fellow's a very Vicar of Bray for shifting
with the weather!"

"Some years before, when the Anglicans ran the Puritans out of Virginia,
Uncle Leonard had given 'em leave to make a town called Providence on
the Severn River, inasmuch as none suffered in Maryland by reason of
his faith. But these Protestants were arch ingrates, and despised us Roman-
ists, and would swear no allegiance to Father. They plainly declared their
eagerness for his overthrow and watched jealously for any excuse to seize
the government. When Charles I was beheaded and Charles II driven to
exile, Father made no protest but acknowledged Parliament's authority;
he e'en saw to't that the Catholic Thomas Greene, Governor after Uncle
Leonard died, was replaced by a Protestant and friend of Parliament, Wil-
liam Stone, so's to give the malcontents in Providence no occasion to
rebel. His thanks for this wisdom was to have Charles II, exiled on the
Isle of Jersey, declare him a Roundhead and grant the Maryland govern-
ment to Sir William Davenant, the poet/'

"Davenant!" exclaimed Ebenezer. "Ah, now, 'tis a right noble vision,
the poet-king! Yet do I blush for my craft, that the fellow took a prize so
unfairly giv'n."

"He got not far with't, for no sooner did he sail for Maryland than a
Parliament cruiser waylaid him in the Channel off Lands End, and that
scotched him."

"Colleague or no,'7 Ebenezer declared, "I've no pity for him."

"Now Virginia,, don't you know, was royalist to the end, and when she
proclaimed Charles II directly his father was axed, Parliament made ready
a fleet to reduce her to submission. Just then, in 1650, our Governor Stone
hied him to Virginia on business and deputized his predecessor Thomas
Greene to govern till his return. 'Twas a fool's decision, inasmuch as this
Greene still smarted at having been replaced and despised Father as a
traitor to the Crown and the Roman Church. Directly he's deputized he
declares with Virginia for Charles II as the rightful ruler of England, and
for all Governor Stone hastens back and turns the fellow out, the damage
is done! The dastard Dick Ingle was still a free man in London, and directly
word reached him he flew to the committee in charge of reducing Virginia
and caused 'em to add Maryland to the commission. How the man yearned
to plunder us again! But Father caught wind oft, and ere the fleet sailed
he petitioned that Greene's proclamation had been made without his
authority or knowledge, and caused the name of Maryland to be stricken
from the commission. Thinking that guaranty enough, he retired: straight-

[ 100 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

way sly Bill Claiborne appears and, trusting as always that the committee
knows naught of American geography, sees to't the commission is rewrit
to include all the plantations within the Bay of Chesapeake— which is to
say, all of Maryland! What's more, he gets himself appointed as an alternate
commissioner of Parliament to sail with the fleet. There were three com-
missioners— all reasonable gentlemen, if misled— and two alternates:
Claiborne and another scoundrel, Richard Bennett, that had taken ref-
uge in our Providence town what time Virginia turned out her Puritans."

"Marry!" cried Ebenezer. "I ne'er have heard of such perfidy!"

"Stay," said Charles. "Not content with being alternates, Claiborne
and Bennett see to't two of the commissioners are lost at sea during the
passage, and step ashore at Point Comfort with full authority over both
Virginia and Maryland!"

" 'Sbodikins! The man's a very Machiavell"

"They reduce Virginia; Bennett appoints himself Governor and
Claiborne Secretary of State; then they turn to Maryland, where the rascals
in Providence greet 'em with open arms. Good Governor Stone is de-
posed, Catholics are stripped of their rights wholesale, and all Father's
authority is snatched away. As a last stroke, Claiborne and Bennett rouse
up the old Virginia Company to petition for wiping Maryland off the map
entirely and restoring the ancient boundaries of Virginia! Father pled
his case to the Commissioners for Plantations, and while it lay a-cooking
he reminded Oliver Cromwell that Maryland had stayed loyal to the Com-
monwealth in the face of her royalist neighbors. Cromwell heard him out,
and later, when he dissolved Parliament and named himself Lord Protector,
he assured Father of his favor.

"Governor Stone meanwhile had got himself back into office, and
Father ordered him to proclaim the Protectorate and declare the commis-
sioners' authority expired. Claiborne and Bennett muster a force of their
own and depose Stone again favor of the Puritan William Fuller from
Providence, Father appeals to Cromwell, Cromwell sends an order to Ben-
nett and Claiborne to desist, and Father orders Stone to raise a force and
march on Fuller in Providence. But Fuller hath more guns,, and so he forces
Stone's men to surrender on promise of quarter. No sooner doth he have
'em than he murders four of Stone's lieutenants on the spot and throws
Stone, grievously wounded, into prison. Fuller's beasts then seize the Great
Seal, confiscate and plunder at will, and drive all Catholic priests out of
the Province in fear of their lives; Claiborne and his cohorts raise a hue
and a ciy again to the Commissioners for Plantations. But 'tis all in vain,

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 1O1 ]

for at last, in 1658, the Province is restored to Father, and the government
delivered to Josias Fendall, whom Father had named to represent him after
Stone was jailed."

"Thank Heav'n!" said Ebenezer. "All's well that ends well!"
"And ill as ends ill," replied Charles, "for that same year, 1658, Fendall
turned traitor/'

"Tis too much!" cried Ebenezer. "Tis a surfeit of treachery!"
"Tis the plain truth. Some say he was the tool of Fuller and Claiborne,
inasmuch as Fuller had once arrested him and released him only on
oath of allegiance to the poltroons. However 'twas, Cromwell being dead
and his son a weakling, Fendall persuaded the Assembly to declare them-
selves independent of the Proprietary, overthrew the whole constitution
of the Province, and usurped every trace of Father's authority. TwouldVe
been a sorry time for us, had not Charles II been restored to the throne
shortly after. Father, Heav'n knows how, made peace with him, and ob-
tained royal letters commanding all to support his government and directing
Berkeley of Virginia to aid him. Uncle Philip Calvert was named governor,
and the whole conspiracy collapsed at once: Maryland was ours again—
albeit the Assembly remained a thorn in our side."
"Dare I hope your trials ended there?" asked Ebenezer.
"For a time we suffered no more rebellions," Charles admitted. "I came
to St. Mary's as governor in 1661, and in 1675, when my dear father died,
I became third Lord Baltimore. During that time our only real troubles
were scattered assaults by the Indians and certain attempts by the Dutch,
the Swedes, and others to snatch away some of our land by the old hactenus
inculta gambit. The Dutch had long before settled illegally on the Dela-
ware River, and Governor D'Hinoyossa of New Amstel stirred up the
Jhonadoes, the Cinagoes, and the Mingoes against us. I considered making
war on him, but decided against it for fear King Charles (who had already
broken sundry of my charter-privileges) might take the opportunity to seize
the whole Delaware territory—I lost it anyhow in 1664, to his brother the
Duke of York, and could not raise a word of protest.

"The year I became Lord Baltimore it happened that the Cinagoes (what
the French call Seneques) descended on the Susquehannoughs, who were
fierce enough themselves, and they in turn overran Maryland and Virginia.
The outrages that followed were the excuse for Bacon's Rebellion in Vir-
ginia and the cause of much unrest in Maryland. Some time before, in
order to harness somewhat the malcontents and seditionists in the Assem-
bly, I had restricted the suffrage to the better class of citizens, and held

[l02] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

the Assembly in long session to avoid the risk of new elections; but even
this failed to quiet things— insurrection was in the very air, and no governor
durst raise an army to quell Indians or conspirators for fear 'twould turn
on him. My enemies intrigued against me from all quarters. Even old
Claiborne reappears on the scene, albeit he was well past eighty, and, pos-
ing as a royalist again, petitions the King against me— to no avail, happily,
and 'twas my indescribable pleasure not long after to hear of the scoundrel's
death in Virginia."

" Tis my pleasure as well to hear oft now," declared Ebenezer, "for I'd
come to fear the knave was immortal! We are the better for his passing,
I swear!"

"I was accused of everything from Popery to defrauding the King's rev-
enues," Charles went on. "As if my own weren't being defrauded on every
side! When Nat Bacon turned his private army on Governor Berkeley in
Virginia, a pair of rascals named William Davis and John Pate attempted
a like rebellion in Calvert County— urged on, I think, by the turncoats
William Fuller and Josias Fendall, who ranged privily about the Province
causing trouble. I was in London at the time, but when I heard of the
thing, and heard it said that the insurgents denied the lawfulness of my
Assembly, I straightway had my deputy hang the both of 'em,, and nipped
the matter ere it got out of hand. But not four years later the traitor Fen-
dall conspires with a new villain to incite a new revolt: This was the false
priest, John Coode, I spoke of, that puts e'en Black Bill Claiborne in the,
shade. I squelched their game in time and banished Fendall forever, though
the conniving Assembly let Coode off free as a bird, to cause more trouble
later.

"After this the intrigues and tribulations came in a great rush, such that
six Lords Proprietary could scarce have dealt with all In 1681, to settle a
private debt, King Charles grants a large area north of Maryland to William
Penn-may his Quaker fat be rendered in the fires of helll-and immedi-
ately I'm put to't to defend my northern border against his smooth de-
ceits and machinations. 'Twas laid out in my charter that Maryland's
north boundary is Latitude Forty, and to mark that parallel I had long
since caused a blockhouse to be built for the Susquehannoughs. Penn
agreed with me that his boundary should run north of the blockhouse,
but when his grant appeared no mention at all was made oft. Instead there
was a string of nonsense fit to muddle any templar, and to insure his scheme
Penn sent out a lying surveyor with a crooked sextant to take his obser-
vations. The upshot oft was, he declared his southern boundary to be

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 103 ]

eight miles south of my blockhouse and resorted to every evasion and sub-
terfuge to avoid conferring with me on this outrage. When finally we treed
him and proposed a mutual observation, he pled a broken sextant; and
when our own instrument showed the line in its true location, he accused
me of subverting the King's authority. So concerned was he that the
boundary fall where he wished, he proposed a devil's bag of tricks to gain
it. Measure north from the Capes, he says, at the short measure of sixty
miles to the degree; lower your south border by thirty miles, he says, and
snatch land from the Virginians; measure two degrees north from Watkins
Point, he says. Then I ask him, 'Why this measuring and land-snatching?
Why not take sextant in hand- and find the fortieth parallel for good and
all?7 At last he agrees, but only on condition that should the line fall north
of where he wants it, I must sell him the difference at a 'gentleman's
price/"

"I cannot fathom it," Ebenezer admitted. "All this talk of sextants and
parallels leaves me faint."

"The truth was," said Charles, "Penn had sworn to his Society for Trade
that his grant included the headwaters of the Bay and he was resolved to
have't, come what might, for all his lying pieties and smooth platitudes.
When all else failed he fell to plotting with his friend the Duke of York
next door, and when to my great distress the Duke took the throne as
James II, Penn conjures him up that accursed specter of a hactenus inculta
again and gets himself granted the whole Delaware territory, the which
was neither his to take nor James's to grant, but clearly and unmistakably
mine.

"Matters reached such a pass that though I feared to leave the Province
to my enemies for e'en a minute, I had no recourse but to sail for London
in 1684 to fight this Penn's intrigues. Now for some time I had been falsely
accused of allowing smugglers to defraud the King's port-revenues and of
failing to assist the royal tax collectors, and had even paid a fine for't
No sooner do I weigh anchor for London than my kinsman George Talbot
in St. Mary's allows a rascally beast of a tax collector to anger him and
stabs the knave dead. Twas a fool's act, and my enemies seized on't at
once. Against all justice they refuse to try him in the Province, but instead
deliver him to Effingham, then governor of Virginia—who, by the way,
later plotted with the Privy Council to have the whole of Maryland granted
to himself!— and 'twas all I could manage to save his neck. Shortly after-
wards another customs officer is murthered, and though 'twas a private
quarrel, my enemies put the two together to color me a traitor to the Crown.

[ 104 1 THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Penn, meanwhile, commenced a quo warranto suit against my entire
charter, and with his friend on the throne I doubt not what would have
been the result: as't happened, the folk of England just then pressed their
own quo warranto, so to speak, against King James, and Penn's game was
spoilt, for the nonce, by the revolution."

"I cannot tell how relieved I am to hear it!" Ebenezer declared.

"Ah," sighed Charles, "but 'twas my loss either way: when James was
on the throne my enemies called me disloyal to him; when he went in
exile, and William landed in England, all they cared to remember was that
both James and I were Catholics. Twas then, at the worst possible time,
my fool of a Deputy Governor William Josephs sees fit to declare to the
Assembly his belief in the divine right of kings and, folly of follies, makes
Maryland proclaim officially the birth of James's Catholic son!"

"I tremble for you," Ebenezer said.

" Tis fit, 'tis fit. Naturally, the instant William took the throne I sent
word to the Maryland Council to proclaim him. But whether from natural
causes or, as I suspect, from the malice of my enemies, the messenger died
on shipboard and was buried at sea, and his commission with him, so that
Maryland remained silent even after Virginia and New England had pro-
claimed. I sent a second messenger at once, but the harm was done, and
those who were not crying 'Papist!' were crying 'Jacobite!' On the heels of
this misfortune, in 1689 my enemies in England caused me to be outlawed
in Ireland on charges of committing treason there against William in
James's behalf— though in sooth I'd never in my life set foot on Irish soil and
was at the very moment in England expressly to fight the efforts of James
and Penn to snatch Maryland from me! To top it all, in March of the same
year they spread a rumor over Maryland that a great conspiracy of nine
thousand Catholics and Indians had invaded the Province to murther every
Protestant in the land: the men sent to Mattapany, at the mouth of the
Potomac, are told of massacres at the river's head and, rushing there to
save the day,, find the settlers arming against such massacres as they've
heard of in Mattapany! For all my friends declare 'tis naught but a sleeve-
less fear and imagination, the whole Province is up in arms against the
Catholics."

"Blind! Blind!"

"Aye, but 'twas no worse than the anti-Papism here in London," said
Charles. "My only pleasure in this dark hour was to see that lying Quaker
Penn himself arrested and jailed as a Jesuit!"

"Small consolation, but i'faith it cheers me, tool"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 105 ]

"Naught now remained but for the conspirators to administer the coup
de grdce, for ne'er had my position been weaker. This they did in July,
led by the false priest John Coode. He marches on St. Mary's with an
armed force, promotes himself to the rank of general, and for all he'd used
to be a Catholic himself, shouts Papist and Jesuit to the skies until the
whole city surrenders. The President and Council flee to Mattapany, where
Coode besieges 'em in the fort till they give up the government to him.
Then, calling themselves the Protestant Associators, they beg King Wil-
liam to snatch the government for himself I"

"I am astonished!" Ebenezer said. "Surely King William hanged him!"

Charles, who had been talking as rapidly and distractedly as though tell-
ing a rosary of painful beads, now seemed really to notice Ebenezer for
the first time since commencing the history.

"My dear Poet. . . ." He smiled thinly. "William is at war with King
Louis: in the first place, for aught anyone knows the war might spread to
America, and he is most eager to gain control of all the colonies against
this possibility. In the second place, war is expensive, and my revenues
could help to pay his soldiers. In the third place, he holds the crown by
virtue of an anti-Papist revolution, and I am a Papist. In the fourth place,
the government of Maryland was imploring him to rescue the province
from the oppression of Catholics and Indians "

"Enough, enough!" cried Ebenezer. "I fear me he snatched it!"

"Aye, he snatched my Maryland from me."

"But by what legal right "

"Ah, 'twas wondrous legal," said Charles. "William instructed the At-
torney General to proceed against my charter by way of scire facias, but
reflecting afterwards on the time such litigation would require, and the
treasury's dire need for food, and the possibility of the Court's finding in
my favor— as he was sensible they must if the thing were done aright— he
asks Chief Justice Holt to find him a way to snatch my Maryland with less
bother. Holt ponders awhile, scratches round till he recalls that jus est id
quod principi placet, and then declares, in all solemnity, that though
'twould be better the charter were forfeited in a proper inquisition, yet
since no inquisition hath been held, and since by the King's own word the .
matter is urgent, he thinks the King might snatch him the government on
the instant and do his investigating later."

"Why," said Ebenezer, "I am aghast! Tis like hanging a man today and
trying his crime tomorrow!"

Charles nodded. "In August of 1691 milord Sir Lionel Copley became

[ 106 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

the first royal governor of the crown colony of Maryland," he concluded.
"My rank fell from that of count palatine, a veritable prince with power
of life and death over my subjects, to that of common landlord, entitled
only to my quit rents, my port duty of fourteen pence per ton on foreign
vessels,, and my tobacco duty of one shilling per hogshead. The Commis-
sioners of the Privy Seal, be't said to their credit, disputed Lord Holt's
decision, and in fact when the quo warranto was instigated the allegations
against me fell to pieces for lack of evidence, and no judgment was found.
But of course 'twas precisely because he foresaw this that William had
leaped ere he looked: you may depend on't he held fast to Maryland,
judgment or no judgment, and clasps her yet like a lover his mistress; for
Possession is nine points of the law in any case, and with a king 'tis parlia-
ment, statute book, and courtroom all together! Tis said in sooth, A king's
favor is no inheritance; and A king promiseth all, and observeth what he
will"

"And," added Ebenezer, "He who eats the King's goose shall choke on
the feathers!1

"How?" Charles demanded angrily. "D'you twit me, fellow? Think thee
Maryland was e'er King William's goose?"

"Nay, nay!" Ebenezer protested, "You misread the saying! Tis meant to
signify merely, that A great dowry is a bed full of brambles, don't you
know: A great man and a great river are ill neighbors, or A king's bounty
is a mixed blessing'9

"Enough, I grasp it. So, then, there is your Maryland, fellow. Think you
'tis fit for a Marylandiad?"

"I'faith," replied Ebenezer, "'twere fitter for a Jeremiad! Ne'er have I
encountered such a string of plots, cabals, murthers, and machinations in
life or literature as this history you relate me— it sets my head a-twirl, and
chills my blood!"

Charles smiled, "And doth it haply inspire your pen?"

"Ah God, what a dolt and boor must Your Lordship think me, to burst
upon you with grand notions of couplet and eulogy! I swear to you I am
sorry for't: I shall leave at once."

. "Stay, stay," said Charles, as Ebenezer rose to leave. "I will confess to
you, this Marylandiad of yours is not without interest to me/'

"Nay," Ebenezer said, "you but chide me for punishment,"

"I am an old man," Charles declared, "with small time left on earth "

"Heav'n forbid!"

"Nay, 'tis clear truth/' Charles insisted. "The prime of my life, and more,

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 107 ]

I've laid on the altar of a prosperous, well-governed Maryland, which was
given me in trust by my dear father, and him by his, to husband and
improve, and which I dreamed of handing on to my son a richer, worthier
estate for my having ruled it."

"Ah, many, I am in tears!"

"And now in my old age I find this shan't be/' Charles continued.
"Maryland was mine to preserve, and I have lost her for good and all
Moreover, I am too aged and infirm to make another ocean passage and
so must die here in England without laying eyes again upon that land as
dear to my heart as the wife of my body,, and whose abduction and rape
stings me as e'er did Helen's Menelaus."

"I can bear no more!" wept Ebenezer, patting his eyes and blowing his
nose delicately into his handkerchief.

"I have no authority/' Charles concluded, "and so can no longer confer
dignities and titles as before. But I declare to you this, Mr. Cooke: hie you
to Maryland; put her history out of mind and look you at her peerless
virtues— the graciousness of her inhabitants, their good breeding and excel-
lent dwelling places, the majesty of her laws, the comfort of her inns and
ordinaries, the richness and beauty of her fields, woods, and waters— look you
at these, I say; study them; mark them well. Then, if you can, turn what you
see to verse; tune and music it for all the world's ears! Rhyme me such a
rhyme, Eben Cooke; verse me such a verse, I charge you; make me this
Maryland, that neither time nor intrigue can rob me of; that I can pass on
to my son and my son's son and all the ages of the world! Sing me this song,
sir, and by my faith, in the eyes and heart of Charles Calvert and of every
Christian lover of Beauty and Justice, thou'rt in sooth Poet and Laureate
of the Province! And should e'er it come to pass— what against all hope and
expectation I nightly pray for to Holy Mary and all saints— that one day
the entire complexion of things alters, and my sweet province is once again
restored to her proprietor, then, by Heav'n, I shall confer you the title in
fact, lettered on sheepskin, beribboned in satin, signed by myself, and
stamped for the world to gape at with the Great Seal of Maryland!"

Ebenezer's heart was too full for words: color rushed to his cheeks, his
features jerked and boiled, tears sprang to his eyes.

"In the meantime/' Charles went on, "I shall, if t please you, at least
commission you to write the poem. Nay, better, I'll pen thee a draft of the
Laureate's commission, and should God e'er grant me back my Maryland,
'twill retroact to this very day."

[ 108 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"'SheartlTis past belief!"

Charles had his man fetch him paper, ink, and quill, and with the air of
one accustomed to the language of authority, quickly penned the following
commission:

CHARLES ABSOLUTE LORD & PROPRIETARY OF THE PROVINCES
OF MARYLAND & AVALON LORD BARON OF BALTIMORE & To
Our Trusty and Welbeloved Our Dear Ebenezer Cooke Esqr of Cookes Poynt
Dorset County Greeting Whereas it is our Desire that the Sundrie Excellencies
of Our Province of Maryland aforesaid be set down in Verse for Generations
to Come and Whereas it is Our Conviction that Your talents Well Equip
You for that Task &* We Do Will and Command you upon the Faith which
You Owe unto Us that You do compose and construct such an Epical Poem,
setting forth the Graciousness of Marylands Inhabitants, Their Good Breeding
and Excellent Dwelling-places, the Majesty of her Laws, the Comfort of Her
Inns and Ordinaries &* &* and to this Purpose We do Name and Entitle You
Poet and Laureat of the Province of Maryland Aforesaid. Witness Ourself at
the City of London the twenty-eighth Day of March in the eighteenth Year
of Our Dominion over Our said Province of Maryland Annoq Dom 1694

"Out on't!" he cried, handing the finished draft to Ebenezer. " Tis done^
and I wish you fair passage."

Ebenezer read the commission, flung himself upon his knees before Lord
Baltimore, and pressed that worthy's coat hem to his lips in gratitude. Then,
mumbling and stumbling, he pocketed the document, excused himself, and
ran from the house into the bustling streets of London.

ii: EBENEZER RETURNS TO HIS COMPANIONS, FINDS
THEM FEWER BY ONE, LEAVES THEM FEWER BY
ANOTHER, AND REFLECTS A REFLECTION

"LOCKET'S!" CRIED EBENEZER TO ms CABMAN, ANT> SPRANG INTO THE
hackney with a loose flail of limbs like a mismanaged marionette. With
what a suddenness had he scaled the lofty reaches of Parnassus, while his
companions blundered yet in the foothills! Snatching out his commission,
he read again the sweet word Laureat and the catalogue of Maryland's
excellencies.

"Sweet land!" he exclaimed. "Pregnant with song! Thy deliverer ap-
proachethl"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ log ]

There was a conceit worth saving, he reflected: such subtle vistas of mean-
ing in the word deliverer, for instance, with its twin suggestions of midwife
and savior! He lamented having no pen nor any paper other than Balti-
more's commission, which after kissing he tucked away in his coat.

"I must purchase me a notebook," he decided. " Twere a pity such wild-
flowers should die unplucked. No more may I think merely of my own
delight, for a laureate belongs to the world/'

Soon the hackney cab reached Locket's, and after rewarding the driver
most handsomely, Ebenezer hurried to find his colleagues, whom he'd not
seen since the night of the wager. Once inside, however, he assumed a
slower, more dignified pace, in keeping with his position, and weaved
through the crowded tables to where he spied his friends.

Dick Merriweather, throwing back his head to down a half pint of sack,
noticed him first.

" 'Sblood!" he shouted. "Look ye yonder, what comes hitherl Am I
addled with the sack, or is't Lazarus untombed and walking?"

"How now!" Tom Trent joined in. "Hath the spring wind thawed ye,
dear boy? I feared me you was ossified for good and all."

"Thawed?" said Ben Oliver, and winked. "Nay, Tom, for how could such
a lover e'er be chilled? 'Tis my guess he's only now regained his strength
from his mighty joust the night of our wager and is back to take all comers."

"Lightly, Ben," reproved Tom Trent, and glanced apprehensively at
John McEvoy beside him, who,, however, was entirely absorbed in regarding
Ebenezer and seemed not to have heard the remark. " 'Tis unbecoming a
good fellow, to hold a grudge so long o'er such a trifle."

"Nay, nay," Ben insisted. "What more pleasant or instructive, I ask you,
than to hear of great deeds from the lips of their doers? Hither with thee,
Ebenezer lad. Take a pot with us and tell us all plainly, as a man amongst
men: What think you now of this Joan Toast that you did swive? How is
she in the bed, I mean, and what fearsome bargain did you drive for your
five guineas, that we've seen none of you this entire week, or her since?
Marry, what a man!"

"Curb your evil tongue," Ebenezer commanded crisply, taking a seat.
"You know the story as well as I."

"Hi!" cried Ben, taken aback. "Such bravery! What, will you say naught
by way of explanation or defense when a very trollop scorns you?"

Ebenezer shrugged. " 'Tis near as e'er she'll come to greatness."

"Great Heav'nl" Tom Trent exclaimed, voicing the general astonish-

[lio] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

ment. "Who is this stranger with the brave replies? I know the face and I
know the voice, but b'm'faith, 'tis not the Eben Cooke of old!"

"Nay," agreed Dick Merriweather, " 'tis some swaggering impostor. The
Cooke I knew was e'er a shy fellow, something stiff in the joints, and no
great hand at raillery. Know you aught of his whereabouts?" he asked
Ebenezer.

"Aye"— Ebenezer smiled— "I know him well, for 'twas I alone saw him
die and wrote his elegy."

"And prithee, sir, what carried him off?" inquired Ben Oliver with as
much of a sneer as could be salvaged from his recent confounding. "Belike
'twas the pain of unrequited love?"

"Your ignorance of the facts," Ebenezer replied, "is matched only
by the deficiency of your imagination. The truth of the matter is, sirs, he
perished in childbirth the night of the wager and never learned that what
he'd been suffering was the pains of labor— the more intense, for that he'd
carried the fetus since childhood and was brought to bed oft uncommon
late. Howbeit, 'twas the world's good luck he had him an able midwife,
who delivered full-grown the man you see before you."

"Ffaith!" declared Dick Merriweather. "I have fair lost sight o' you in
this Hampton Court Hedge of a conceit! Speak literally, £n't please you, if
only for a sentence, and lay open plainly what is signified by all this talk of
death and midwives and the rest of the allegory."

"I shall," smiled Ebenezer, "but I would Joan Toast were present to
hear't, inasmuch as 'twas she who played all innocently the midwife's part.
Do fetch her, McEvoy, that all the world may know I bear no ill will towards
either of you. Albeit you acted from malice, yet, as the proverb hath it,
Many a thing groweih in the garden, that was not planted there; or even
A man's fortune may be made by his enviers. Certain it is, your mischief
bore fruit beyond my grandest dreams! You said of me once that I compre-
hend naught of life, and perchance 'tis true; but you must allow farther
that Fools rush in where wise men fear to tread, and that A castle may be
taken by storm, that ne'er would fall to siege. The fact is, I've wondrous
news to tell. Will you summon her?"

Ever since Ebenezer's appearance in the winehouse, and throughout all
the raillery and allegorizing, McEvoy had sat quietly, even sullenly, without
comment or apparent curiosity. Now, however, he got up from his place,
growled "Summon her yourself, damn ye!" and left the tavern in a great
sulk.

"What ails him?" asked Ebenezer. "The man meant me a dastard injury

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 111 ]

—doth it chagrin him that it misfired into fortune? Twas a civil request; did
I know Joan's whereabouts I'd fetch her myself."

"So I doubt not would he/' Ben Oliver said.

"What is't you say?"

"Did you not hear it said before," asked Tom Trent, "that nor hide nor
hair of your Joan have we seen these three days past?"

"I took it for a simple twit," said Ebenezer. "You mean she's gone in
sooth?"

"Aye," affirmed Dick, "the tart is vanished from sight, and not her hus-
band nor any soul else knows aught oft. The last anyone saw of her was
the day after the wager. She was in a fearful fret "

"I'faith," put in Ben, "there was no speaking to the woman!"

"We took it for a pout," Dick went on, "forasmuch as you'd That is

to say "

"She'd scorned four guineas from a good man," Ben declared in a last
effort at contempt, "and got in exchange a penceless preachment from "

"From Ebenezer Cooke, my friends," Ebenezer finished, unable to hold
back the news any longer, "who this very day hath been named by Lord
Baltimore to be Poet and Laureate of the entire Province of Maryland!
And you've not seen the wench since, you say?"

But none heard the question: they looked at each other and at Ebenezer.

"Egad!"

"'Sblood!"

"Is't true? Thou'rt Laureate of Maryland?"

"Aye," said Ebenezer, who actually had said only that he'd been named
Laureate, but deemed it too late, among other things, to clarify the
misunderstanding. "I sail a few days hence for America, to manage the
estate where I was born, and by command of Lord Baltimore to do the
office of Laureate for the colony."

"Have you commission and all?" Tom Trent marveled.

Ebenezer did not hesitate. "The Laureate's commission is in the writ-
ing," he explained, "but already I'm commissioned to turn him a poem."
He pretended to search his pockets and came up with the document in his
coat, which he passed around the table to great effect.

"By Heav'n 'tis true!" Tom said reverently.

"Laureate of Maryland! It staggers me!" said Dick.

"I will confess," said Ben, visibly awed, "I'd ne'er have guessed it possible.
But out on't! Here's a pot to you, Master Laureate! Hi there, barman, a pint
all around! Come, Tom! Ho, Dick! Let's have a health, nowl"

[ 112 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Gladly!"

"Here's to him!"

"I hope I may call it," said Ben, putting his arm about Ebenezer's
shoulders, "for 'tis many a night old Eben's taken my twitting in good
grace, that would have rankled a meaner spirit. Twould be as fair an honor
to propose this health t'you, friend, as 'twill be for me to pay for't. Prithee
grant me that, and 'twere proof of a grace commensurate to thy talent."

"Your praise flatters me the more," Ebenezer said modestly, "for that I
know you— how well!— to be no flatterer. Tis a double honor," he pointed
out further, "to be toasted by such a toaster, and by how much the less I
merit your compliments, by so much the more am I humbled by 'em. In
fine, toast away if you will, and a long life to you!"

The waiter had by this time brought the pints, and the four men raised
their glasses.

"Nay," cried Ben, thinking better of it, "all London must know it! Hi
there,, sots and poetasters!" He shouted to the house at large, springing up
on the table. "Put by your gossip for the nonce and drink a health with me—
as worthy a health as e'er was drunk under these rafters!"

"Nay, I beg you, Ben!" Ebenezer protested, tugging Ben's coat

"Hear!" cried several patrons, for Ben was a favorite among them.

"Drag off yon skinny fop and raise your glasses!" someone cried.

"Scramble up here," Ben ordered, and Ebenezer was lifted willy-nilly to
the table top, somewhat uncertain about the propriety of accepting the
compliment.

"To the long life, good health, and unfailing talent of Ebenezer Cooke,"
Ben proposed, and everyone in the room raised his glass, "who while we
lesser fry spent our energies braying and strutting, sat aloof and husbanded
his own, and crowed him not a crow nor, knowing himself an eagle, cared
a bean what barnyard fowl thought of him; and who, therefore, while the
rest of us cocks must scratch our dunghills in feeble envy, hath spread his
wings and taken flight, for who can tell what lofty eyrie! I give thee
Ebenezer Cooke, lads, twitted and teased by all— none more than myself—
who this day was made Poet and Laureate of the Province of Maryland!"

A general murmur went round the room, followed by a clamor of polite
congratulation that rushed like wine to Ebenezer's heaH, for it was the first
such experience in the entire span of his life.

"I thank you," he said thickly to the room, his eyes filling. "I can say
no more!"

"Hear! Hear!"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [l1?]

"A poem, sir!" someone called.

"Aye, a poem!"

Ebenezer got hold of himself and stayed the clamor with a gesture.
"Nay," he said, "the muse is no minstrel, that sings for a pot in the taverns;
besides, I've not a line upon me. This is the place for a toast, not for poetry,
and 'twill greatly please me do you join my toast to my magnanimous
patron Lord Baltimore "

A few glasses went up, but not many, for anti-Papist feeling was running
high in London.

"To the Maryland Muse " Ebenezer added, perceiving the small

response, and got a few more hands for his trouble.

"To Poetry, fairest of the arts"— many additional glasses were raised—
"and to every poet and good-fellow in this tavern, which for gay and gifted
patrons hath not its like in the hemisphere!"

"Hearl" the crowd saluted, and downed the toast to a man.

It was near midnight when Ebenezer returned at last to his rooms, dizzy
from excessive wine and applause. He called in vain for Bertrand and tipsily
commenced undressing, still very full of his success. But whether because of
the silence of his room after Locket's or the unhappy sight of his bed lying
still unmade as he'd left it in the morning, the linens all rumpled and soiled
from his four days' despair, or some more subtle agency, his gaiety seemed
to leave him with his clothes; when at length he had stripped himself of
shoes, drawers, shirt, and periwig, and stood shaved, shorn, and mother-
naked in the center of his room, his mind was dull,, his eyes listless, his
stance uncertain. The great success of his first plunge still thrilled him to
contemplate, but no longer was it entirely a pleasurable excitement. His
stomach felt weak. All that Charles had told him of the tumultuous history
of Maryland came like a bad dream to his memory, and turning out the
lamp he hurried to the window for fresh air.

Despite the hour, London bristled in the darkness beneath and all around
him with a quiet roar, from which came at intervals here a drunkard's
shout, there a cabman's curse, the laughter of a streetwalker, the whinny of
a horse. A damp spring breeze moved in off the Thames and breathed on
him: out there on the river that winds through the city, anchors were being
weighed and catted, sails unfurled from yards and sheeted home, bearings
taken, soundings called, and dark ships run down the tide, out the black
Channel, and thence to the boundless ocean, cresting and tossing under
the moon. Great restless creatures were stirring and gliding in the depths;

[114] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

pale gray sea birds wheeling and shrieking down the night wind, or planing
wildly against the scud. And could one then suppose that somewhere far
out under the stars there really lay a Maryland, against whose long sand
coasts the black sea foamed? That at that very instant, peradventure, some
naked Indian prowled the reedy dunes or stalked his quarry down whisper-
ing aisles of the forest?

Ebenezer shuddered, turned from the window, and drew the curtains
fast. His stomach was extremely uneasy. He lay down on the bed and tried
to sleep, but with no success: the daring of his interview with Charles
Calvert, and all that followed on it, kept him tossing and turning long
after his muscles had begun to ache and his eyes to bum for sleep. The
specters of William Claiborne, Richard Ingle, William Penn, Josias
Fendall, and John Coode— their strange and terrible energy, their in-
trigues and insurrections—chilled and sickened him but refused to be driven
from his awareness; and he could not give over remembering and pronounc-
ing his title even after repetition had taken pleasure and sense from the
epithet and left it a nightmare string of empty sounds. His saliva ran freely;
he was going to be ill. Poet and Laureate of the Province of Maryland!
He had leaped astride life and set out on his journey. There was no turning
back now. Out under the night, Maryland and his single mortal destiny
awaited him.

"Ah, God!" he wept at last, and sprang from the bed in an icy sweat.
Running to the chamber pot he flung off the lid and with a retch heaved
into it the wine of his triumph. Once delivered of it, he felt somewhat
calmer: he returned to the bed, clasped his knees against his chest to quiet
the agitation of his stomach, and so contrived, after countless fretful sighs,
a sort of sleep.

PART II: GOING TO MALDEN

i: THE LAUREATE ACQUIRES A NOTEBOOK

HAPPILY, WHATEVER TREPIDATIONS OR DANK NIGHT DOUBTS HAD LATELY

plagued the Laureate's repose, when the sun rose next morning over Lon-
don they were burned off with the mist of the Thames; he woke at nine
refreshed in body and spirit, and, when he remembered the happenings of
the day before and his new office, it was with unalloyed delight.

"Bertrand! You, Bertrandl" he called, springing from the bed. "Are you
there, fellow?"

His man appeared at once from the next room.

"Did you sleep well, sir?"

"Like a silly babe. What a morning! It ravishes me!"

"Methought I heard ye taken with the heaves last night."

" 'Sheart, a sour pint, belike, at Locket's," Ebenezer replied lightly, "or
a stein of green ale. Fetch my shirt there, will you? There's a good fellow.
Egad, what smells as fresh as new-pressed linen or feels as clean?"

" Tis a marvel ye threw it off so. Such a groaning and a hollowing!"

"Indeed?" Ebenezer laughed and began to dress with leisurely care.
"Nay, not those; my knit cottons today. Hollowing, you say? Some passing
nightmare, I doubt not; I've no memory oft Nothing to fetch surgeon or
priest about."

"Priest, sir!" Bertrand exclaimed with a measure of alarm. "Tis true,
then, what they say?"

"It may be, or it may not. Who are they, and what is their story?"

"Some have it, sir," Bertrand replied glibly, "thou'rt in Lord Baltimore's
employ, who all the world knows is a famous Papist, and that 'twas only on
your conversion to Rome he gave ye your post."

" 'Dslife!" Ebenezer turned to his man incredulously. "What scurrilous
libel! How came you to hear it?"

Bertrand blushed. "Begging your pardon, sir, ye may have marked ere
now that albeit I am a bachelor, I am not without interest in the ladies,
and that, to speak plainly, I and a certain young serving maid belowstairs
have, ah, what ye might call - "

[ll8] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"An understanding," Ebenezer suggested impatiently. "Do I know it,
you scoundrel? D'you think I've not heard the twain of you clipping and
tumbling the nights away in your room, when you thought me asleep?
I'faith, 'tis enough to wake the dead! If my poor puking cost you an hour's
sleep last night, 'tis not the hundredth part of what I owe you! Is't she told
you this tale of a cock and a bull?"

"Aye," admitted Bertrand, "but 'twas not of her making."

'Whence came it, then? Get to the point, man! Tis a sorry matter when
a poet cannot accept an honor without suffering on the instant the slanders
of the envious, or make a harmless trope without his man's crying Popery!"

"I crave your pardon, sir," said Bertrand. " Twas no accusation, only
concern; I thought it my duty to tell ye what your enemies are saying. The
fact is, sir, my Betsy, who is a hot-blooded, affectionate lass, hath the bad
luck to be married, and that to a lackluster, chilly fellow whose only passions
are ambition and miserliness, and who, though he'd like a sturdy son to
bring home extra wages, is as sparing with caresses as with coins. Such a
money-grubber is he that, after a day's work as a clerk's apprentice in the
Customs House, he labors half the night as a fiddler in Locket's to put by
an extra crown, with the excuse 'tis a nest egg against the day she finds
herself with child. But 'sblood, 'tis such a tax on his time that he scarce sees
her from one day to the next and on his strength that he hath not the
wherewithal to roger what time he's with her! It seemed a sinful waste to
• me to see, on the one hand, poor Betsy alone and all a-fidget for want of
husbanding, and on the other her husband Ralph a-hoarding money to no
purpose, and so like a proper Samaritan I did what I could for the both of
'em: Ralph fiddled and I diddled."

"How's that, you rascal? The both of 'em! Small favor to the husband,
to bless him with horns! What a villainy!"

"Ah, on the contrary, sir, if I may say so, 'twas a double boon I did him,
for not only did I plough his field, which else had lain fallow, but seeded it
as well, and from every sign 'twill be a bumper crop come fall. Look ye,
sir, ere ye judge me a monster; the lad knew naught but toil and thankless
drudgery before and took no pleasure in't, save the satisfaction of drawing
his wage. He came home to a wife who carped and quarreled for lack o' love
and was set to leave him for good, which would've been the death of him.
Now he works harder than ever, proud as a peacock he's got a son a-building,
and his clerking and fiddling have changed from mere labor to royal sport.
As for Betsy, that was wont to nag and bark at him before, she's turned

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 119 ]

sweet as a sugar-tit and jumps to his every whim and fancy; she would not
leave him for the Duke o' York. Man and wife are both the happier fort/'

"And thou'rt the richer by a mistress that costs you not a farthing to
keep," Ebenezer added, "and on whom you may get a household of
bastards with impunity!"

Bertrand shrugged, adjusting his master's cravat.

"As't happens, yes," he admitted* "though I hear't said that virtue is its
own reward."

"Then 'twas this cuckold of a fiddler started the story?" demanded
Ebenezer. "I'll take the wretch to court!"

"Nay, 'twas but gossip he passed on to Betsy last night, who passed it
on to me this morning. He had it from the drinkers at Locket's, after all the
toasting was done and you were gone."

"Unconscionable envy and malice!" Ebenezer cried. "Do you believe it?"

"Many, sir, 'tis no concern o' mine what persuasion ye follow. I'll confess
I wondered, after Betsy told me, whether all thy hollowing and pitching
last night was not a free-for-all 'twixt you and your conscience, or some
strange Papish ceremony, for I know they've a bag of 'em for every time
o'day. B'm'faith, 'twere mere good business, methinks, to take his supersti-
tious vows for him, if that's the condition for the post. Soon or late, we all
must strike our bargains with the world. Everything hath its price, and
yours was no dear one, inasmuch as neither milord Baltimore nor any other
Jesuit can see what's in your heart. All ye need do is say him his hey-nonny-
nonnies whenever he's there to hear 'em; as for the rest of the world, 'tis
none o' their concern what office ye hold, or what it cost ye, or who got it
for ye. Keep mum on't, draw your pay, and let the Pope and the world
go hang."

"Lord, hear the cynic!" said Ebenezer. "My word on't, Bertrand, I
struck no bargain with Lord Baltimore^ nor dickered and haggled any quid
pro quos. I'm no more Papist this morning than I was last week, and as for
salary, my office pays me not a shilling."

" Tis the soundest stand to take," Bertrand nodded knowingly, "if any
man questions ye."

" 'Tis the simple truth! And so far from keeping my appointment secret,
I mean to declare it to all and sundry— within the bounds of modesty, of
course/'

"Ah, ye'll regret that!" Bertrand warned. "If ye declare the office, 'tis no
use denying ye turned Papist to get it. The world believes what it pleases."

[ 12O ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"And doth it relish naught save slander and spite and fantastical
allegation?"

" Tis not so fantastic a story/' Bertrand said, "though mind ye, I don't
say 'tis true. There's a lot goes on behind the scenes, if ye just but knew
it. More history's made by secret handshakes than by battles, bills, and
proclamations!9

"And are all human motives really so despicable?"

"Aye, sir. Why do you ask?"

"Nay, nay!" Ebenezer protested. "Such libels are but the weapon of the
mediocre against the talented. Those fops at Locket's daren't allow the
legitimacy of my laureateship, inasmuch as 'twere but a declaration of their
own lack of ability. They slander me to solace themselves! As for your
cynical philosophy, that sees a plot in every preferment, methinks 'tis but
mere wishful thinking, the mark of a domestical mind, which attributes to
the world at large all the drama and dark excitement that it fails to find
in its own activity."

" Tis all above me, this philosophy/' Bertrand said. "I know only what
they say."

"Popery indeed! Dear God, I am ill of London! Fetch my traveling wig,
Bertrand; I shan't abide another day in this place!"

"Where will ye go, sir?"

"To Plymouth, by the afternoon coach. See to't my chests and trunks are
packed and loaded,, will you? 'Sheart, how shall I endure e'en another
morning in this vicious city?"

"Plymouth so soon, sir?" asked Bertrand,

"Aye, the sooner the better. Have you found a place?"

"I fear not, sir. Tis a bad season to seek one, my Betsy says, and 'tis not
every place I'd take."

"Ah well, no great matter. These rooms are hired till April's end, and
thou'rt free to use 'em if you choose. Your wage is paid ahead, and I've
another crown for you if my bags are on the Plymouth coach betimes."

"I ihank ye, sir. I would ye weren't going, I swear't, but ye may depend
on't your gear will be stowed on the coach. Marry, I'll not soon find me a
civiler master!"

"Thou'rt a good fellow, Bertrand," Ebenezer smiled. <cWere't not for
my niggard allowance, I'd freight thee to Maryland with me."

"I'faith, I've no stomach for bears and salvages, sir! An't please ye, I'll
stay behind and let my Betsy comfort me for losing ye."

"Then good luck to you," said Ebenezer as he left, "and may your son

THE SOT-WEED FACTO* [ 121 ]

be a strapping fellow. I shan't return here: I mean to waste the whole
morning buying a notebook for my voyage, rather than pass another minute
in Locket's or some other den of gossip. Haply I'll see you at the posthouse."
"Good day then, sir," Bertrand said, "and fare thee welll"

Irksome as was his false friends' slander, it soon slipped from Ebenezer's
mind once he was out of doors. The day was too fair, his spirits too high, for
him to brood much over simple envy. "Leave small thoughts to small
minds," said he to himself, and so dismissed the matter.

Much more important was the business at hand: choosing and purchasing
a notebook. Already his delicious trope of the day before, which he'd
wanted to set down for future generations, was gone from his memory; how
many others in years gone by had passed briefly through his mind, like
lovely women through a room, and gone forever? It must happen no more.
Let the poetaster and occasional dabbler-in-letters affect that careless fe-
cundity which sneers at notes and commonplace books: the mature and
dedicated artist knows better, hoards every gem he mines from the mother
lode of fancy, and at his leisure sifts the diamonds from the lesser stones.

He went to the establishment of one Benjamin Bragg, at the Sign of the
Raven in Paternoster Row— a printer, bookseller, and stationer whom he
and many of his companions patronized. The shop was a clearinghouse for
minor literary gossip; Bragg himself— a smiling, waspish, bright-eyed, honey-
voiced little man in his forties of whom it was rumored that he was a
Sodomite— knew virtually everyone of literary pretensions in the city, and
though he was, after all, but a common tradesmen, his favor was much
sought after. Ebenezer had been uncomfortable in the place ever since his
first introduction to the proprietor and clientele some years before. He had
always, until the previous day, been of at least two minds about his own
talent, as about everything else— confident on the one hand (From how
many hackle-raising ecstasies! From how many transports of inspiration!)
that he was blessed with the greatest gift since blind John Milton's and
was destined to take literature singlehandedly by the breech and stand it
upon its periwig; equally certain, on the other (From how many sloughs
of gloom, hours of museless vacancy, downright immobilities!) that .he was
devoid even of talent, to say nothing of genius; a bumbler, a stumbler, a
witless poser like many another— and his visits to Bragg's place, whose
poised habitues reduced him to mumbling ataxia in half an instant, never
failed to convert him to the latter opinion, though in other circumstances

[ 122 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

he could explain away their cleverness to his advantage. In any case, he was
in the habit of disguising his great uneasiness with the mask of diffidence,
and Bragg rarely noticed him at all.

It was to his considerable satisfaction, therefore, that when this time he
entered the establishment and discreetly asked one of the apprentices to
show him some notebooks, Bragg himself, catching sight of him, dismissed
the boy and left the short, wigless customer with whom he'd been gossiping
in order to serve him personally.

"Dear Mr. Cooke!" he cried. "You must accept my felicitations on your
distinction!"

"What? Oh, indeed/' Ebenezer smiled modestly. "However did you hear
oft so soon?"

"So soon!" Bragg warbled. "Tis the talk o' London! I had it yesterday
from dear Ben Oliver, and today from a score of others. Laureate of
Maryland! Tell me," he asked, with careful ingenuousness, "was't by Lord
Baltimore's appointment, as some say, or by the King's? Ben Oliver declares
'twas from Baltimore and vows he'll turn Quaker and seek the same of
William Penn for Pennsylvania!"

"'Twas Lord Baltimore honored me," Ebenezer replied coolly, "who,
though a Romanist, is as civil a gentleman as any I've met and hath a
wondrous ear for verse."

"I am certain oft," Bragg agreed, "though I've ne'er met the man.
Prithee, sir, how came he to know your work? We're all of us a-flutter to
read you, yet search as I may I can't find a poem of yours in print, nor hath
anyone I've asked heard so much as a line of your verse. Marry, I'll confess
it: we scarce knew you wrote any!"

"A man may love his house and yet not ride on the ridgepole," observed
Ebenezer, "and a man may be no less a poet for not declaiming in every
inn and ordinary or printing up his creatures to be peddled like chestnuts
on London Bridge."

"Well said!" Bragg chortled, clapped his hands, and bounced on his heels.
"Oh, pungently put! 'Twill be repeated at every table in Locket's for a
fortnight! Ah, 'slife, masterfully put!" He dabbed his eyes with his handker-
chief. "Would you tell me, Mr. Cooke, if t be not too prying a question,
whether Lord Baltimore did you this honor in the form of a recommenda-
tion for King William and the Governor of Maryland to approve, or
whether 'tis still in Baltimore's power to make and fill official posts? There
was some debate on the matter here last evening."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 123 ]

"I daresay there was," Ebenezer said. "Tis my good fortune I missed
it. Is't your suggestion Lord Baltimore would willfully o'erstep his authority
and exercise rights he hath no claim to?"

"Oh, Heav'n forbid!" cried Bragg, wide-eyed. " Twas the farthest thing
from my mind, sir! Oh, 'sheart! 'Twas a mere civil question, b'm'faithl No
slight intended!"

"So be't. Let us have done with questions now, lest I miss the Plymouth
coach. Will you show me some notebooks?"

"Indeed, sir, at once! What sort of notebook had you in mind?"

"What sort?" repeated Ebenezer. "Are there sorts of notebooks, then? I
knew't not. No matter— any sort will serve, I daresay. 'Tis but to take notes
in."

"Long notes, sir, or short ones?"

"How? What a question! How should I know? Both, I suppose!"

"Ah. And will you take these long and short notes at home, sir, or while
traveling?"

"Ffaith,, what difference to you? Both, I should think. A mere silly note-
book is all my craving."

"Patience, sir; 'tis only to make certain I sell you naught but fits thy
need. The man -who knows what he needs, they say, gets what he wants;
but he who knows not his mind is forever at sixes and sevens and blames
the blameless world fort."

"Enough wisdom, I beg you," Ebenezer said uncomfortably. "Sell me a
notebook fit for long or short notes, both at home and abroad, and have
done with't."

"Very well, sir," Bragg said. "Only I must know another wee thing."

"I'faith, 'tis a Cambridge examination! What is't now?"

"Is't thy wont to make these notes always at a desk, whether at home or
abroad, or do you jot 'em down as they strike you, whether strolling, riding,
or resting? And if the latter, do you yet ne'er pen 'em in the public view,
or is't public be damned, ye'll write where't please you? And if the latter,
would you have 'em think you a man whose taste is evidenced by all he
owns; who is, you might say,, in love with the world? A Geoffrey Chaucer?
A Will Shakespeare? Or would you rather they took you for a Stoical
fellow, that cares not a fig for this vale of imperfections, but hath his eye
fixed always on the Everlasting Beauties of the Spirit: a Plato, I mean, or a
Don John Donne? 'Tis most necessary I should know."

Ebenezer smote the counter with his fist. "Damn you, fellow, thou'rt

r 12A ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

pulling my leg for fair! Is't some wager you've made with yonder gentle-
man, to have me act the fool for him? Marry, 'twas my retching hate of
raillers and hypocrites that drove me here, to spend my final London morn
sequestered among the implements of my craft, like a soldier in his armory
or a mariner in the ship chandler's; but I find no simple sanctuary even
here. By Heav'n, I think not even Nero's lions were allowed in the
dungeons where the martyrs prayed and fortified themselves, but had to
stay their hunger till the wretches were properly in the arena. Will you deny
me that small solace ere I take ship for the wilderness?"

"Forbear, sir; do forbear," Bragg pleaded, "and think no ill of yonder
gentleman, who is a perfect stranger to me."

"Very well. But explain yourself at once and sell me a common notebook
such as a poet might find useful who is as much a Stoic as an Epicurean."

"I crave no more than to do just that," Bragg declared. "But I must
know whether you'll have the folio size or the quarto. The folio, I might
say, is good for poets, inasmuch as an entire poem can oft be set on facing
pages, where you can see it whole."

"Quite sound," Ebenezer acknowledged. "Folio it is/7

"On the other hand, the quarto is more readily lugged about, particularly
when thou'rt walking or on horseback."

"True, true," Ebenezer admitted.

"In the same way, a cardboard binding is cheap and hath a simple
forthright air; but leather is hardier for traveling, more pleasing to behold,
and more satisfying to own. What's more, I can give ye unruled sheets,
such as free the fancy from mundane restraints, accommodate any size of
hand, and make a handsome page when writ; or ruled sheets, which save
time, aid writing in carriages or aboard ships, and keep a page neat as a
pin. Finally, ye may choose a thin book, easy to cany but soon filled, or a
fat one, cumbersome to travel with but able to store years of thought 'twixt
single covers. Which shall be the Laureate's notebook?"

" 'Sbodikins! I am wholly fuddled! Eight species of common notebook?"

"Sixteen, sir; sixteen, if I may," Bragg said proudly. "Ye may have

A thin plain cardboard folio,

A thin plain cardboard quarto,

A thin plain leather folio,

A thin ruled cardboard folio,

A fat plain cardboard folio,

A thin plain leather quarto,

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 125 ]

A thin ruled cardboard quarto,

A fat plain cardboard quarto,

A thin ruled leather folio,

A fat ruled cardboard folio,

A fat plain leather folio,

A thin ruled leather quarto,

A fat ruled cardboard quarto,

A fat plain leather quarto,

A fat ruled leather folio, or

A fat ruled leather quarto."

"Stop!" cried Ebenezer, shaking his head as though in pain. "Tis the
Pit!"

"I may say also I'm expecting some lovely half-moroccos within the week,
and if need be I can secure finer or cheaper grades of paper than what
I stock."

"Have at thee, Sodomite!" Ebenezer shouted, drawing his short-sword.
"Tis thy life or mine, for another of thy evil options* and I am lost!"

"Peace! Peace!" the printer squealed, and ducked under his serving-
counter.

"Peace Peace we'll have do I reach thee," Ebenezer threatened; "nor no
mere pair of pieces, either, b'm'faith, but sixteen count!"

"Stay, Master Laureate," urged the short, wigless customer; he came from
across the shop, where he'd been listening with interest to the colloquy,
and placed his hand on Ebenezer's sword arm. "Calm your wrath, ere't
lead ye to blight your office."

"Eh? Ah, to be sure," sighed Ebenezer, and sheathed his sword with
some embarrassment. " 'Tis the soldier's task to fight battles, is't not, and
the poet's to sing 'em. But marry, who dares call himself a man that will not
fight to save his reason?"

"And who dares call himself reasonable," returned the stranger, "that
will so be swayed by's passions as to take arms against a feckless shopkeeper?
Tis thy quandary, do I see't aright, that all these notebooks have their
separate virtues, yet none is adequate, inasmuch as your purposes range
'twixt contradictories."

"You have't firmly," Ebenezer admitted.

"Then 'tis by no means this poor knave's fault, d'ye think, that he gives
ye options? He's more to be praised than braised for't. Put by your anger,
for Anger begins with folly and ends with repentance; it makes a rich man

[ 126 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

hated and a poor man scorned, and so far from solving problems, only
multiplies 'em. Follow rather the sweet light of Reason, which like the
polestar leads the wise helmsman safe to port through the unruly seas of
passion."

"Ah, you chasten me, friend," said Ebenezer. "Out with you, Ben Bragg,
and never fear: I'm my own man again."

" 'Sheart, thou'rt a spirited fellow for a poet!" Bragg exclaimed, reappear-
ing from under the counter.

"Forgive me."

"There's a good fellow!" said the stranger. "Anger glances into wise men's
breasts, but rests only in the bosoms of fools. Heed no voice but Reason's."

"Good counsel, I grant thee," Ebenezer said. "But I'll own it passeth
my understanding how Solomon himself could reconcile opposites and
make a plain book elegant or a fat book thin. Not all the logic of Aquinas
could contrive it!"

"Then look past him," said the stranger with a smile, "to Aristotle himself,
and where you find opposite extremes, seek always the Golden Mean. Thus
Reason dictates: Compromise, Mr. Cooke; compromise. Adieu."

With that the fellow left, before Ebenezer could thank him or even
secure his name.

"Who was that gentleman?" he asked Bragg.

" 'Twas one Peter Sayer," Bragg replied, "that just commissioned me to
print him some broadsides—more than that I know not,"

"No native Londoner, I'll wager. What a wondrous wise fellow!"

"And wears his natural hair!" sighed the printer. "What think ye of his
advice?"

" 'Tis worthy a Chief Justice," Ebenezer declared, "and I mean to carry
it out at once. Fetch me a notebook neither too thick nor too thin, too tall
nor too small, too simple nor too elegant. Twill be Aristotle from start
to finish!"

"Your pardon, sir," Bragg protested; "I have already named my whole
stock over, and there's not a Golden Mean in the lot. Yet I think ye might
purchase a book and alter it to suit."

"How, prithee," Ebenezer asked, looking nervously to the door through
which Sayer had made his exit, "when I know no more of bookmaking than
doth a bookseller of poetry?"

"Peace, peace!" urged Bragg. "Remember the voice of Reason."

"So be't," Ebenezer said. "Every man to his trade, as Reason hath it

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 12J ]

Here's a pound for book and alterations. Commence at once, nor let your
eye drift e'en for an instant from the polestar of Reason."

'Very good, sir," Bragg replied, pocketing the money. "Now, 'tis but
reasonable, is't not, that a long board may be sawn short, but a short board
may not be stretched? And a fat book, likewise, may be thinned, but ne'er
a thin book fattened?"

"No Christian man can say you nay," Ebenezer agreed.

"So, then," said Bragg, taking a handsome, fat, unruled leather folio from
the shelf, "we take us a great stout fellow, spread him open thusly, and
compromise him!" Pressing the notebook flat open upon the counter, he
ripped out several handfuls of pages.

"Whoa! Stay!" cried Ebenezer.

"Then," Bragg went on, paying him no heed, "since Reason tells us a
fine coat may wear shabby, but ne'er a cheap coat fine, we'll just compromise

this morocco here and there " He snatched up a letter opener near at

hand and commenced to hack and gouge the leather binding.

"Hold, there! I'faith, my notebook!"

"As for the pages," Bragg continued, exchanging the letter opener for
goose quill and inkpot, "ye may rule 'em as't please ye, with Reason as the
guide: sidewise"— he scratched recklessly across a half-dozen pages—
"lengthwise"— he penned hasty verticals on the same pages—" or what ye
will!" He scribbled at random through the whole notebook,

"'Sbody! My pound!"

"Which leaves only the matter of size," Bragg concluded: "He must be
smaller than a folio, yet taller than a quarto. Hark ye, now: methinks the
voice of Reason orders "

"Compromise!" Ebenezer shouted, and brought down his sword upon the
mutilated notebook with such a mighty chop that, had Bragg not just then
stepped back to contemplate his creation he'd surely have contemplated his
Creator. The covers parted; the binding let go; pages flew in all directions.
"Tfort for your damned Golden Mean!"

"Madman!" Bragg cried, and ran out into the street. "Oh, dear, help!
Madman!"

There was no time to lose: Ebenezer sheathed his sword, snatched up
the first notebook he spied— which happened to be lying near at hand, over
the cash drawer— and fled to the rear of the store, through the print shop
(where two apprentices looked up in wonder from their work) , and out the
back door.

: THE LAUREATE DEPARTS FROM LONDON

THOUGH SEVERAL HOURS YET REMAINED BEFORE DEPARTURE TIME, EBENE-

zer went from Bragg s directly to the posthouse, ate an early dinner, and
sipped ale restlessly while waiting for Bertrand to appear with his trunk.
Never had the prospect of going to Maryland seemed so pleasant: he longed
to be off! For one thing, after the adventure in Bragg's establishment he
was more than ever disgusted with London; for another, he rather feared
that Bragg, to whom he'd mentioned the Plymouth coach, might send men
after him, though he was certain his pound was more than adequate pay-
ment for both notebooks. And there was another reason: his heart still beat
faster when he recalled his swordplay of an hour before, and his face flushed.

'What a gesture!" he thought admiringly. "'That for your damned
Golden Mean!' Well said and well done! How it terrified the knave, f faith!
A good beginning!" He laid his notebook on the table: it was quarto size,
about an inch thick, with cardboard covers and a leather spine. "Tis not
what Fd have chosen" he reflected without sorrow, "but 'twas manfully
got, and 'twill do, 'twill do. Barman!" he called, "Ink and quill, if you
please!" The writing materials fetched, he opened the notebook in order to
pen a dedication: to his surprise he found already inscribed on the first page
B. Bragg, Printer & Stationer, Sign of the Raven, Paternoster Row, London,
1694, and on the second and third and fourth such entries as BdngZe &
Son, glaziers, for window-glass, 13/4, and /no. Eastbury, msc printing, 1/3/9

"'Sblood! Tis Bragg's account book! A common ledger!" Investigating
further he found that only the first quarter of the book had been used: the
last entry, dated that same day, read CoZ. Peter Sayer, broadsides, 2/5/0.
The remaining pages were untouched. "So be't," he smiled, and ripped out
the used sheets. ' 'Was't not my aim to keep strict account of my traffic with
the muse?" Inking his quill, he wrote across the first new page Ebenezer
Cooke, Poet & Laureate of Maryland and then observed (it being a ledger
of the double-entry variety) that his name fell in the Debit column and
his title in the Credit.

"Nay, 'twill never do," he decided, "for to call my office an asset to me
is but to call me a liability to my office." He tore out the sheet and reversed
the inscription. "Yet Poet and Laureate Eben Cooke is as untrue as the

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 12Q ]

other," he reflected, "for while I hope to be a credit to my post, yet surely
the post is no liability to me. Twere fitter the thing were done sidewise
down the credit line, to signify the mutual benefit of title and man." But
before he tore out the second sheet it occurred to him that "credit" was
meaningless except as credit to somebody— and yet anything he entered to
receive it became a liability. For a moment he was frantic.

"Stay!" he commanded himself, perspiring. "The fault is not in the
nature of the world, but in Bragg's categories. I'll merely paste my commis-
sion over the whole title page."

He called for glue, but when he searched his pockets for the commission
from Lord Baltimore, he found it not in any of them.

"A'gad! Tis in the coat I wore last night at Locket's, that Bertrand hath
packed away for me!"

He went searching about the posthouse for his man, without success. But
in the street outside, where the carriage was being made ready, he was
astonished to find no other person than his sister Anna.

"Marry!" he cried, and hurried to embrace her. "People vanish and ap-
pear to me of late as in a Drury Lane comedy! How is it thou'rt in London?"

"To see thee off to Plymouth," Anna said. Her voice was no longer girlish,
but had a hard, flat tone to it, and one would have put her age closer to
thirty-five than twenty-eight years. "Father forbade it but would not come
himself, and so I stole away and be damned to him." She stepped back
and examined her brother. "Ah faith, thou'rt grown thinner, Eben! I've
heard 'twere wise to fatten up for an ocean passage."

"I had but a week to fatten," Ebenezer reminded her. During his sojourn
at Paggen's he had seen Anna not more than once a year, and he was greatly
moved by the alteration in her appearance.

She lowered her eyes, and he blushed.

"I'm looking for that great cynical servant of mine," he said gaily, turning
away. "You've not seen him, I suppose?"

"You mean Bertrand? I sent him off myself not five minutes past, when
he'd got all your baggage on the coach."

"Ah, there's a pity. I had promised him a crown fort."

"And I gave it him, from Father's money. He'll be back at St. Giles, I
think, for Mrs. Twigg hath a ferment of the blood and is not given long
to live."

"Nay! Dear old Twigg! 'Tis a pity to lose her."

They stood about awkwardly. Turning his head to avoid looking her in

[ 130 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

the eye, Ebenezer caught sight of the wigless fellow of the bookstore, Peter
Saver, standing idly by the corner.

"Did Bertrand tell you aught of my preferment?" he asked cheerfully.

"Aye, he spoke oft. I'm proud." Anna's manner was distracted. "Eben
" She grasped his arm. ' Was't true, what that letter said?" Great con-
cern was evident in her face.

Ebenezer laughed, somewhat nettled at Anna's lack of interest in his
laureateship. " 'Twas true I'd got nowhere at Peter Paggen's, in all those
years. And 'twas true a woman was in my chamber."

"And did you deceive her?" his sister asked anxiously.

"I did," Ebenezer said. Anna turned away and caught her breath.

"Stay!" he cried. " Twas not at all in the way you think. I deceived her
inasmuch as she was a whore that came to me to be employed for five
guineas; but I took a great love for her and would neither lay nor pay her
on those terms."

Anna wiped her eyes and looked at him. "Is't true?"

"Aye," Ebenezer laughed. "Haply you'll judge me not a man for't, Anna,
but I swear I am as much a virgin now as the day we were born. What,
thou'rt weeping again!"

"But not for sorrow," Anna said, embracing him. "Do you know,
Brother, I had come to think since you went to Magdalene College we no
longer knew each other— but it may be I was wrong."

Ebenezer was moved by this statement, but a trifle embarrassed when
Anna squeezed him more tightly before releasing him, Passersby, including
Peter Sayer on the corner, turned their heads to look at them: doubtless
they looked like parting lovers. Yet he was ashamed at being embarrassed.
He moved closer to the coach, to prevent too gross a misunderstanding,
and took his sister's hand, at least partly to forestall further embraces.

"Do you ever think of the past?" Anna asked.

"Aye."

"What wondrous times we had! Do you remember how we used to talk
for hours after Mrs. Twigg had turned out the lamp?" Tears sprang again
to her eyes. "I'faith, I miss you, Ebenl"

Ebenezer patted her hand.

"And I thee," he said, sincerely but uncomfortably. I remember one
day when we were thirteen, you were ill in bed with a fever, and so
Henry and I went alone to tour Westminster Abbey. Twas my first whole
day apart from you, and by dinnertime I missed you so sorely I begged
Henry to take me home. But we went instead to St James's Park,

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 131 ]

and after supper to Dukes Theater in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and 'twas far
past midnight ere we reached home. I felt ten years older for the day's
adventure and could not see for the life of me how I'd e'er be able to tell
you the whole oft. I'd had my first meal away from home, been to my first
theater, and tasted my first brandy. We talked of nothing else for weeks
but that day, and still I'd remember trifles I'd forgot to tell you. 'Twould
give me pain to think of them, and at length I came to regret ever having
gone and told Henry so, for't seemed to me you'd ne'er catch up after
that day."

"I recall it as if 'twere but last week," Anna said. "How many times
I've wondered whether you'd forgot it." She sighed. "And I never did catch
up! Query as I might, there was no getting the whole story. The awful
truth oft was, I'd not been there to see!"

Ebenezer interrupted her with a laugh. "Marry, e'en now I recall some-
thing of it I forgot to tell you! After supper at some Pall Mall tavern on
that day, I waited a half hour alone at the table while Henry went upstairs

for one reason or another " He stopped and blushed scarlet, suddenly

realizing, after fifteen years, what in all probability Henry Burlingame had
gone upstairs for. Anna, however, to his relief, showed no sign of under-
standing.

"The wine had gone to my head, and everyone looked odd to me, none
less than myself. 'Twas then I composed my first poem, in my head. A little
quatrain. Nay, I must confess 'twas no slip of memory: I kept it secret,
Heav'n knows why. I can e'en recite it now:

Figures, so strange, no GOD design' d
To be a Part of Human-kind:
"But wanton Nature . . .

La, I forget the rest. 'Sheart," he said, resolving happily to record the little
verse in his notebook as soon as he boarded the carriage, "and since then
what years we've spent apart! What crises and adventures we each have
had, that the other knows naught of! 'Tis a pity all the same you had a fever
that day!"

Anna shook her head. "I had a secret too, Eben, that Mrs. Twigg knew,
and Henry guessed, but never you nor Father. 'Twas no fever I was bedded
with, but my first monthly troubles! I'd changed from child to woman that
morning, and had the cramp oft as many women do."

Ebenezer pressed her hand, uncertain what to say. It was time to board
the coach: footmen and driver were attending last-minute details.

[ 132 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Marry, 'twill be a long time ere I see you again," he said "Belike
you'll be a stout matron with half-a-dozen children!*'

"Nay, not I," Anna said. " Twill be Mrs. Twigg's lot for me, when she
dies: an old maid housekeeper/*

Ebenezer scoffed. "Thou'rt a catch for the best of men! Could I find
your equal I'd be neither virgin nor bachelor for long/' He kissed her good-
bye, forwarded his respects to his father, and made to board the carriage,

"Stay!" Anna said impulsively.

Ebenezer hesitated, uncertain of her meaning. Anna slipped from her
finger a silver seal ring, well known to the poet because it was their only
memento of their mother, whom they had never seen; Andrew had bought
it during his brief courtship and had presented it to Anna some years past.
Equally spaced around the seal were the letters A N N E B, for Anne Bow-
yer, his fiancee, and in the center, overlapped and joined by a single cross-
bar, was a brace of beflourished A's signifying the connection of Anne and
Andrew. The complete seal looked like this:

"Prithee take this ring," Anna entreated, and looked at it musingly. M Tis
—'tis my wont to alter its significance somewhat ... but no matter, Here,
let me put it on you." She caught up his left hand and slipped the ring onto
his little finger. "Pledge me . . ." she began, but did not finish.

Ebenezer laughed, and to terminate the uncomfortable situation pledged
that inasmuch as her share of Maiden was a large part of he? dowry, he
would make it flourish.

It was time to leave. He kissed her again and boarded the carriage, taking
the seat from which he could wave to her. At the last minute the wigless
fellow, Peter Sayer, boarded the coach and took the opposite scat. A foot-
man closed the door and sprang up to his post— apparently there were to
be no other passengers. The driver whipped up the hones. Ebencxcr waved
to the forlorn figure of his twin at the posthousc door, and the carriage
pulled away.

"Tis no light matter, to leave a woman ye love," Sayer ofeitd. "Is't

thy wife, perhaps, or a sweetheart?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 1J3 ]

"Neither," sighed Ebenezer. " Tis my twin sister, that I shan't see again
till Heav'n knows when." He turned to face his companion. "Thou'rt my
savior from Ben Bragg's, I believe— Mr. Sayer?"

Sayer's face showed some alarm. ''Ah, ye know me?"

"Only by name, from Ben Bragg." He extended his hand. "I am Ebene-
zer Cooke, bound for Maryland/'

Sayer shook hands warily.

"Is Plymouth your home, Mr. Sayer?"

The man searched Ebenezer's face. "Do ye really not know Colonel
Peter Sayer?" he asked.

"Why, no." Ebenezer smiled uncertainly. "I'm honored by your com-
pany, sir."

"Of Talbot County in Maryland?"

"Maryland! I'faith, what an odd chance!"

"Not so odd," Sayer said, "since the Smoker's Fleet sails on the first.
Anyone bound for Plymouth these days is likely bound for the plantations."

"Well, 'twill be a pleasant journey. Is Talbot County near to Dorchester?"

"Really, sir, thou'rt twitting me!" Sayer cried,

"Nay, I swear't; I know naught of Maryland. 'Tis my first visit since the
age of four."

Sayer still looked skeptical. "My dear fellow, you and I are neighbors,
with only the Great Choptank between us."

"Marry, what a wondrous small world! You must pay me a call sometime,
sir: I'll be managing our place on Cooke's Point."

"And writing a deal of verse, did I hear Mr. Bragg aright."

Ebenezer blushed* "Aye, I mean to turn a line or two if I can."

"Nay, put by your modesty, Master Laureatel Bragg told me of the honor
Lord Baltimore did ye."

"Ah well, as for that, 'tis likely he got it wrong. My commission is to write
a panegyric on Maryland, but I'll not be laureate in fact till the day Balti-
more hath the Province for his own again."

"Which day/' Sayer said, "you and your Jacobite friends yearn for, I
presume?"

"Stay, now!" Ebenezer said, alarmed. "I am as loyal as you."

Sayer smiled for an instant but said in a serious tone, "Yet ye wish King
William to lose his province to a Papist?"

"I am a poet/' Ebenezer declared, almost adding and a virgin from habit;
4tl know naught of Jacobites and Papists, and care less."

[ 134] TH* SOT-WEED FACTO*

"Nor know ye aught of Maryland it seems," Sayer added* "How well do
ye know your patron?"

"Not at all, save that he is a great and generous man. I've conversed
with him but once, but the history of his province persuades me he was
done a pitiful injustice. Ffaith, the scoundrels that have fleeced and slan-
dered him! I am confident King William knows not the whole truth/*

"But you do?"

"I don't say that. Still and all, a villain is a villain! This fellow Clatbome,
that I heard of, and Ingle, and John Coode^ that led the latest insurrec-
tion "

"Did he not strike a great blow for the faith, against the Papists?" Sayer
demanded.

Ebenezer began to grow uncomfortable, "I know not where your
sympathies lie, Colonel Sayer; belike thou'rt a colonel in Coode's militia
and will clap me in prison the day we step ashore in Maryland "

"Then were't not the part of prudence to watch thy speech? Mind, 1
don't say I am a friend of Coode's, but for all ye know I may be,"

"Aye, 'twere indeed the part of prudence," Ebeneser said, a trifle fright-
ened. "You may say 'tis not always prudent to be just, and I 'tis not always
just to be prudent. I am no Roman Catholic, sirf nor antipapist either, and
I wonder whether 'tis a matter 'twist Protestants and Papists in Maryland
or 'twixt rascals and men of character, whatever their faith."

"Such a speech could get thee jailed there," Sayer smiled.

"Then 'tis proof of their injustice," Ebenezer declared, not a little
anxiously, "for Tin not on either side. Lord Baltimore strikes me as a man
of character, and there's an end on't It might be I'm mistaken,"

Sayer laughed* "Nay, thou'rt not mistaken. I was but trying your
loyalty."

'To whom, prithee? And what is your conclusion?**

"Thou'rt a Baltimore man/'

"Do I go to prison for't?"

"That may be," Sayer smiled, "but not at my hands* I am this vety mo-
ment under arrest in Maryland for seditious speech against Coode and have
been since last June."

"Nay!"

"Aye, along with Charles Carroll, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Edward
Randolph, and half a dozen other fine fellows that spoke against the black-
guard. I am no Papist either, but Charles Calvert is an old and dear friend

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 135 ]

of mine. May the day I fear to speak up against such poltroons be the last
day of my life!"

Ebenezer hesitated. "How am I to know 'tis not now thou'rt trying me,
and not before?"

"Ye can never know/' Sayer replied, "especially in Maryland, where
friends may change their colors like tree frogs. Why,, do ye know, the bar-
rister Bob Goldsborough of Talbot, my friend and neighbor for years,
deposed against me to Governor Copley? The last man I'd have thought a
turncoat!"

Ebenezer shook his head. "A man mil sell his heart to save his neck. The
picture looks drear enough, f faith!"

"Yet there's this to say for't," Sayer said, "that it makes the choice a clean
one: ye must hold your tongue with all save your conscience or else speak
your mind and take the consequences— discretion goes out the window,
and so doth compromise."

"Is this the Voice of Reason speaking?" Ebenezer asked,

"Nay, 'tis the Voice of Action. Compromise serves well enough when
neither extreme will get ye what ye want: but there are things men must
not want. What comfort is a whole skin, pray, when the soul is wounded
unto death? 'Twas I wrote Baltimore his first full account of Coode's
rebellion, and rather than live under his false Associators I left my house
and lands and came to England."

"How is it thou'rt returning? Will you not be clapped in irons?"

"That may be," Sayer said. "Howbeit, I think not. Copley's dead since
September, and Baltimore himself had a hand in commissioning Francis
Nicholson to replace him. D'ye know Nicholson?"

Ebenezer admitted that he did not.

"Well, he hath his faults— chiefly a great temper and a passion for
authority— but his ear's been bent the right way, and he'll have small use
for Coode's sort. Ere he got this post he was with Edmund Andros in New
England, and 'twas Leisler's rebellion in New York that ran him out— the
very model of Coode's rebellion in Maryland. Nay, I fear no harm from
Nicholson."

"Nonetheless, 'tis a bold resolve," Ebenezer ventured.

Sayer shrugged. "Life is short; there's time for naught but bold resolves."

Ebenezer started and looked sharply at his companion.

"What is't?"

"Nothing," Ebenezer said. "Only a dear friend of mine was wont to tell
me that, I've lost track of him these six or seven years."

[ 136 ] TOE SOT-WBED FACTOR

"Belike he made some bold resolve himself/' Sayer suggested, "though
'tis easier to recommend than do. Did ye heed his counsel?"

Ebenezer nodded. "Hence both my voyage and my laureateship,** he
said, and since they had a long ride before them he told his traveling-
companion the story of his failure at Cambridge, his brief sojourn in Lon-
don with Burlingame and his long one with Peter Paggen, the wager in
the winehouse, and his audience with Lord Baltimore, The motion of the
carriage must have loosened his tongue, for he went into considerable detail.
When he concluded with his solution to the problem of choosing a note-
book and showed him Bragg's ledger, Sayer laughed so hard he had to hold
his sides.

"Oh! Ha!" he cried- "TJurf for your golden mtanl Oh, 'sbodflcins!
Thou'rt a credit to your tutor, I swear!**

" Twas my first act as Laureate/' Ebeneser smiled, "I saw it as a kind
of crisis/'

"Marry, and managed it wondrous well! So here ye sit: virgin and poet!
Think ye the 'twain will dwell 'neath the same roof and act quarrel with
each other day and night?"

"On the contrary, they live not only in harmony but in mutual
inspiration/'

"But what on earth hath a virgin to sing of? What have ye in your ledger
there?"

"Naught save my name/* Ebenezer admitted. "I had minded to paste
my commission there, that Baltimore drafted, but it got packed in my trunk,
Yet I've two poems to copy in it from memory, when I can. The one I
spoke of already, that I wrote the night of the wager; 'tis on the subject of
my innocence."

At his companion's request Ebenezer recited the poem,

"Very good," Sayer said when it was done* "Methinks it puts your notion
aptly enough, though I'm no critic. Yet 'tis a mystery to me, what ye'fl
sing of save your innocence. Prithee recite me the other piece/*

"Nay, 'tis but a silly quatrain I wrote as a lad— the first I ever rhymed
And I've but three lines oft in my memory/"

"Ah, a pity. The Laureate's first song: 'twould fetch a price someday, Til
wager, when thou'rt famous the world o'er. Might ye heat me to the three
ye have?"

Ebenezer hesitated, "Thou'rt not baiting me?**

"Nay!" Sayer assured him. " Tis a mere natural curiosity, is't not, to
wonder how flew the mighty eagle as a fledgling? Do we not admire old

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Plutarch's tales of young Alcibiades flinging himself before the carter, or
Demosthenes shaving half his head, or Caesar taunting the Cilician
pirates? And would ye not yourself delight in hearing a childish line of
Shakespeare's, or mighty Homer's?"

"I would, right enough," Ebenezer admitted. "But will ye not judge the
man by the child? Tis the present poem alone, methinks, that matters, not
its origins,, and it must stand or fall on's own merits, apart from maker and
age."

"No doubt, no doubt," Sayer said, waving his hand indifferently, "though
this word merit's total mystery to me, What I spoke of was interest, and
whether 'tis good or bad in itself, certain your Hymn to Innocence is of
greater interest to one who knows the history of its author than to one who
knows not a bean of the circumstances that gave it birth."

"Your argument hath its merits," Ebenezer allowed, not a little im-
pressed to hear such nice reasoning from a tobacco-planter.

Sayer laughed. "A fart for thy meritl My argument hath its interest,
peradventure, to one who knows the arguer, and the history of such debates
since Plato's time."

"Yet surely the Hymn hath some certain degree of merit, and hath nor
more nor less whether he that reads it be a Cambridge don or silly footboy—
or for that matter, whether 'tis read or not."

"Belike it doth," Sayer said with a shrug. " Tis very like the schoolmen's
question, whether a falling tree on a desert isle makes a sound or no, inas-
much as no ear hears it. I've no opinion on't myself, though I'll own the
quarrel hath some interest: 'tis an ancient one, with many a mighty
implication to't."

"This interest is the base of thy vocabulary/' Ebenezer remarked, "as
merit seems to be of mine."

"It at least permits of conversation," Sayer smiled. "Prithee, which gleans
more pleasure from thy Hymn? The footboy who knows not Priam from
Good King Wenceslas, or the don who calls the ancients by their nick-
names? The salvage Indian that ne'er heard tell of chastity, or the Christian
man who's learned to couple innocence with unpopped maidenheads?"

"Marryl" Ebenezer exclaimed. "Your case hath weight, my friend, but
I confess it repels me to own the muse sings clearest to professors! 'Twas
not of them I thought when I wrote the piece."

"Nay, ye mistake me," Sayer said. " 'Tis no mere matter of schooling,
though none's the worse for a little education. Human experience is what
I mean: knowledge of the world, both as stored in books and learnt from

[ 138 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

the hard text of life. Your poem's a spring of water. Master Laureate—
'sheart, for that matter everything we meet is a spring, is't not? That
the bigger the cup we bring to't, the more we fetch away, and the more
springs we drink from, the bigger grows our cup. If 1 oppose your notion
of 'merit in itself/ 'tis that such thinking robs the bank of human experi-
ence, wherein I have a considerable deposit. I will not drink with any man
who'd have me throw away my cup. In short, sir, though I am neither poet
nor critic, nor e'en a common Artium Bttccalaureus, but only a simple sot-
weed planter that hath read a book or two in's time and seen a bit o* the
wide world, yet I'm confident your poem means more to me than to you.**

"What! That are neither virgin nor poet?"

Sayer nodded. "As for the first, I have been one in my time and look on't
now from the vantage-point of experience, which ye do not. For the second,
'tis but a different view ye get as author. Nor am I the dullest of readers: I
quite appreciate the wordplays in your first quatiaia, for instance*"

"Wordplays? What wordplays?"

"Why, chaste Penelope, for one,'* Sayer said- "What better pun for a
wife plagued twenty years by suitors? Twas a clever choice!"

"Thank you," Ebenezer murmured,

"And Andromache's bouncing boy," Sayer went on, "that was pitched
from the walls of Ilium "

"Nay, 'tis grotesque!" Ebenezer protested. "I meant no such thingl**

"Not so grotesque, It hath the salt of Shakespeare,"
^ "Do you think so?" Ebenezer xeconsidercd the phrase in his mind.
"Haply it doth at that Nonetheless you read more out than I put in/*

" 'Tis but to admit/* Sayer said, "I read mom out than you read out,
which was my claim. Your poem means more to me/*

"I'faith, I've not the means to refute you!" Ebenezer declared. "If
thou'rt a true sample of my fellow planters, sir, then Maryland must be the
muse's playground, and a paradise for poets! Thou'rt indeed the very voice
and breath of Reason, and I'm honored to be your neighbor. My cup
runneth over."

Sayer smiled. "Belike it wants enlarging?"

"Tis larger now than when I left London, Thou'rt no mean teacher,**

"For fee, then, if I'm thy tutor, ye may pay me out in verse, * Sayer
replied. "The three lines that occasioned our debate."

"As you wish," Ebenezer laughed, "though Heav'n only knows what
you'll find in 'em! Twas once in a Pall Mall tavern, after my firat glass of
Malaga, I composed them, when all the world looked queer and alien/" He
cleared his throat:

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Figures, so strange, no GOD design' d
To be a Part of Human-kind:
But wanton Nature. . . .

In truth, 'tis but two and a half; I know not whither it went from there, but
the message of the whole was simply that we folk were too absurd to do
credit to a Sublime Intelligence. No puns or wordplays, that I know of."

" Tis a passing cynical opinion for a boy/' Sayer said.

"Twas just the way I saw things in my cups. Marry, that last line
teases my memory!"

Sayer stroked his beard and squinted out the window. A dusty country
lad of twelve or thirteen years, wandering idly down the road, stepped aside
and waved at them as they passed.

"Figures, so strange, no GOD designed
To be a Part of Human-kind;'

Sayer recited, and turned to smile mischievously at Ebenezer:

"Butm
Mould

Do I have't right, Eben?"

"But wanton Nature, void of Rest,
Moulded the brittle Clay in Jest.

3: THE LAUREATE LEARNS THE TRUE IDENTITY OF
COLONEL PETER SAYER

"NAY, I'GOD!" EBENEZER BLINKED, AND SHOOK HIS HEAD, AND CRANED
forward as if seeking a message on his companion's face.
"Yes, 'tis I. Shame on you, that you failed to see't, or Anna either."
"But 'sheart, Henry, thou'rt so altered I've still to see't! Wigless,

bearded "

"A man changes in seven years," Burlingame smiled. "I'm forty now,
Eben."

Ebenezer laughed distractedly and kept' shaking his head. "E'en the eyes!"
he said. "And thy way of speaking! Thy voice itself is different, and thy
manner! Are you Sayer feigning Burlingame, or Burlingame disguised as
Sayer?"

" 'Tis no disguise, as any that know the real Sayer can testify."
"Yet I knew the real Henry Burlingame," Ebenezer said, "and were't

[ 140] THE SOT-WEED PACTOfc

not that you knew my quatrain I could not say thou'rt he! I told the poem
to none save Henry, and that but once, fifteen years past.0

"As I was fetching thee home from St. James's Park," Henry added
"Twas past midnight, and the Malaga had oiled thy tongue. Yet you were
asleep ere we reached St Giles, with your head on my shoulder, were you
not?"

"Marry, so I was! I had forgot." Ebenezer reached across the carriage and
gripped Burlingame's ami. "Ah God, to think I've found you. Henry! I'd
given you up for lost!"

"Then you do believe 'tis I?"

"Forgive me my doubt; I've ne'er known a man to change so, nor had !
thought it possible/'

Burlingame raised a tutorial finger. 'The world can alter a man entirely,
Eben, or he can alter himself, down to his very essence. Did you not by
your own testimony resolve, not that you wti*, but that you'd be virgin and
poet from that moment hence? Nay, a man must alter willy-nilly in's Sight
to the grave, he is a river running seawards, that is ne'er the same from
hour to hour. What is there in the Maryland Laureate of the boy I fetched
from Magdalene College?"

"The less the better!" Ebenezer replied. "Yet I am still Eben Cooke,
though haply not the same Eben Cooke, as the Thames is Thames however
swift she flows/'

"Is't not the name alone remains? And was't Tfatmt* from the day of
creation?"

"Many, Henry, you were ever one for posing riddles! Is't the form, then,
makes the man, as the banks make the river, whate'er the name and con-
tent? Nay, I see already the objection, that form is not eternal. The man
grows stout or hunchbacked with the years, and running water cub and
shapes the banks."

Burlingpme nodded. " Tis but a change too slow for men to mark, save
in retrospect The crabbed old man recalls his spring, and records tell-
er rocks to him who knows their language— where the river tan of old,
that now runs such-a-way, 'Tis but a grossness of perception, is't not,
that lets us speak of Thames and Tigris, or even Franc* and Engfand,
but especially me and thee, as though what went by those names or others
in time past hath some connection with the present object? I'faith, for
that matter how is't we speak of objects if not that our coarse vision fails
to note their change? The world's indeed a flux, as Heraclitus declared;
the very universe is naught but change and motion."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR I 141 J

Ebenezer had attended this discourse with a troubled air, but now he
brightened. "Have you not in staring o'er the Precipice missed the Path?"
he asked.

"I do not grasp your figure."

"How is't you convinced me thou'rt Henry Burlingame, when name and
form alike were changed? How is't we know of changes too nice for our
eyes to see?" He laughed, pleased at his acuity. "Nay, this very flux and
change you make so much of: how can we speak of it at all, be it ne'er so
swift or slow, were't not that we remember how things were before? Thy
memory served as thy credentials, did it not? Tis the house of Identity,
the Soul's dwelling place! Thy memory, my memory, the memory of the
race: 'tis the constant from which we measure change; the sun. Without it,
all were Chaos right enough,"

"In sum, then, thou'rt thy memory?"

"Aye," Ebenezer agreed. "Or better, I know not what I am, but I know
that I am, and have been, because of memory. Tis the thread that runs
through all the beads to make a necklace; or like Ariadne's thread, that
she gave to thankless Theseus, it marks my path through the labyrinth of
Life, connects me with my starting place."

Burlingame smiled, and Ebenezer observed that his teeth, which had
used to be white, were yellow and carious— at least two were missing alto-
gether.

"You make a great thing of this memory, Eben."

"I'll own I'd not reflected ere now on its importance. Tis food for a
sonnet, or two, don't you think?"

Burlingame only shrugged.

"Come, Henry; sure thou'rt not piqued that I have skirted thy pit!"

"Would God you had/' Burlingame said. "But I fear me thou'rt seduced
by metaphors, as was Descartes of old."

"How is that, pray? Can you refute me?"

"What more refutation need I make of this god Memory9 than that
thou'rt forgetting something?"

"What—" Ebenezer stopped and blushed as he realized the implication
of what his friend had said.

"You did not recall sleeping on my shoulder on the way home from
Pall Mall/' Burlingame reminded him. "This demonstrates the first weak-
ness of your soul-saving thread, which is, that it hath breaks in it. There
are three others/'

"Ah, many/' Ebenezer sighed. "If that is so, I fear for my argument."

[ 142 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"You said 'twas Malaga we drank that night."

"Aye, I've a clear memory oft"

"And I that 'twas Madeira."

Ebenezer laughed, "As for that, I'd trust my memory over yours, inas-
much as 'twas my first wine, and I'd not likely forget the name oft"

"True enough/' Burlingame agreed, "if you got it aright in the first place.
But I too marked it well as your first glass and well knew Malaga from
Madeira, whereas to you the names were new and meaningless* and thus
lightly confused."

"That may be, but I am certain 'twas Malaga nonetheless."

"No matter," Burlingame declared. "The fact of the matter is, where
memories disagree there's oft no means to settle the dispute, and that's
the second weakness. The third is, that in large measure we recall whatever
we wish, and forget the rest. 'Twas not until you summoned up this quat-
rain, for example, that I recalled having slipped upstairs to a whore the
while you were composing it. My shame at leaving you thus alone, for one
thing, forced it soon out of mind."

"Ffaith, my polestar leads me on the rocks!" Ebenesser lamented. "What
is the fourth objection to't?"

"That e'en those things it holds, it tends to color," Burlingame replied,
Tis as if Theseus at every turn rolled up the thread and laid it out again
in a prettier pattern,"

"I fear me thy objections are fatal," Ebenezer said. 'They are like the
four black crows that ate up Gretel's peas, wherewith she'd marked her
trail into the forest."

"Nay, these are but weaknesses, not mortal wounds," said Burlingame.
"They don't obliterate the path but only obfuscate it, so that hy as we
might we never can be certain of t" He smiled* "Howbeit, there is yet a
fifth, that by's own self could do the job-"

" 'Slife, you'd as well uncage the rascal and let us see him plainly."

"My memory served as my credentials, as you told me," Burlingame said.
"Blurred, imperfect as it is from careless use, and thine as well the twain
agreed on points enough to satisfy you I am Burlingame, though 1 could
not prove it any other way. But suppose the thread gets lost completely,
as't sometimes doth. Suppose I'd had no tecolleetion of tny past at all?"

"Then you'd have been Colonel Sayer for all of me," Ebenezer replied.
"Or if haply you'd declared yourself my Henry, but knew no more, I'd
ne'er have credited your tale. But 'tis a rare occurrence, is't not, this total
loss of memory, and rarer yet where no other pjoof exists of one's identity?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 143 ]

"No doubt But suppose again I looked like the man who fetched you to
London, and spoke and dressed like him, and e'en was called Burlingame
by Trent and Merriweather, and fat Ben Oliver. Moreover, suppose I had
before witnesses signed the name as Burlingame was wont to sign it.
Then suppose one day I swore^I was not Burlingame at all, nor knew aught
of his whereabouts, but only a clever actor who had got the knack of
aping signatures, and had passed myself as Heniy for a lark."

'Thy suppositions dizzy me!'* Ebenezer cried.

"However strong your convictions," Burlingame went on, "you'd ne'er
have proof that I was he."

"I must own that's true, though it pains me."

"Now another case "

"Keep thy case, I beg you!" Ebenezer said. "I am cased from head to
toe already."

"Nay, 'tis to the point. Suppose today I'd claimed to be Burlingame,
for all my alteration, and composed a line to fit your quatrain— nay, a
whole life story— which did not match your own recollection; and when
you questioned it, suppose I'd challenged your own identity, and made
you out to be the clever impostor. At best you'd have no proof, would
you now?"

"I grant I would not," Ebenezer admitted. "Save my own certainty.
But it strikes me the burden of proof would rest with you, not me."

"In that case, yes. But I said at best. If I had learned aught of your
past, however, the discrepancies could be charged to your own poor posing,
and if further I produced someone very like you in appearance, 'tis very
possible the burden of proof would be on you. And if I brought a few of
your friends in on the game, or even old Andrew and your sister, to dis-
claim you, I'll wager even you would doubt your authenticity."

"Mercy, mercy!" Ebenezer cried. "No more of these tenuous hypotheses,
lest I lose my wits! I am satisfied thou'rt Henry; I swear to thee I am
Ebenezer, and there's an end on't! Such casuistical speculations lead only
to the Pit."

"True enough," Burlingame said good-humoredly. "I wished only to es-
tablish that all assertions of thee and me, e'en to oneself, are acts of faith,
impossible to verify."

"I grant it; I grant it. Tis established like the " He waved his hand

uncertainly. "Marry, your discourse hath robbed me of similes: I know of
naught immutable and sure!"

" Tis the first step on the road to Heaven," Burlingame smiled.

t 144 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"That may be," Ebenezer said, "or haply 'tis the road to Hell"

Burlingame cocked his eyebrows. " Tis the same road, or good Dante
is a liar. Thou'rt quite content that I am Burlingame?"

"Quite, I swear't!"

"And thou'rt Ebenezer?"

"I never doubted it; and still thy pupil,1 as this carriage ride hath
shown."

"Good. Another time I'll ask you what me and thee refer to, but not

now.

"No, ffaith, not now, for I've a thousand things to ask of you!**
"And I to tell," Burlingame said. "But so fantastic a tale it is» my first
concern is for thy credulity, and thus I deemed necessary all this Sophistical
discourse,"

Not long afterwards the carriage stopped at Aldeishot, for it was well
past suppertime, and the travelers had not eaten. Burlingame, therefore^
as was his habit, postponed all further conversation on the subject while
he and Ebenezer dined on cold capon and potatoes. Afterwards, having
been informed by their driver that there would be a two-hour wait for the
horses and driver which would take them on to Salisbury* Exeter, and Plym-
outh, they took seats before the fire* at Burlingame^ suggestion, with their
pipes and a quart of Bristol sherry* It had grown dark outside; a light rain
began to fall. Ebenezer waited impatiently for his friend to begin, but
Burlingame, jvhen his pipe was lighted and his glass filled, sighed a com-
fortable sigh and asked merely, "How fares your father these days, Ebea?"

4: THE LAUREATE HEARS THE TALE OF
BURLINGAME'S LATE ADVENTURES

"FATHER BE DAMNED!" EBENEZER CRIED. *i KNOW NOT WHETHER HE
lives or dies, nor greatly care till I've heard your story!"

"Yet you know who he is, alive or dead, do you not? And ia that respect,
if not some others, who you are/'

'Tray let us dismiss old Andrew for the nonce," Ebeneser pleaded, "as
he hath dismissed me. Where have you been, and what done and seen?
Wherefore the name Peter Sayer, and your wondrous alteatioas? Com-
mence the tale, and a fig for old Andrew!"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 145 ]

"How dismiss him?" Burlingame asked. "'Twas he commenced my
story, what time he dismissed me."

"What? Is't that nonsense over Anna you refer to? How doth it bear
upon your tale?"

"What towering wrath!" Burlingame said. "What murtherous alarm!
I'God, the hate he bore me— I am awed by't even yetl"

"I've ne'er excused him for it," Ebenezer said shortly.

"Your privilege, as his son. But I, Eben, I excused him on the instant;
forgave him— nay, e'en admired him fort. Had he made to slay me— ah,
well, but no matter,"

Ebenezer shook his head. " 'Tis past my understanding. But say, must
I give up hope of hearing your tale?"

"Thou'rt hearing it," Burlingame declared. "Tis the pier whereon the
entire history rests; the lute-work that ushers in the song."

"So be't. But I fear me 'twill be a tadpole of a history, whose head is
greater than his body. You forgave him, then?"

"More, I loved him for't, and scurried off in shame."

"Yet 'twas a false and vicious charge he charged you!"

Burlingame shrugged. "As for that, 'twas not his justice awed me, but
his great concern for his child."

"A marvelous concern he bears us, right enough," Ebenezer said. "He
will wreck us with his concern! Suppose he'd birched her bloody, as you
told me once he threatened: would you not adore and worship such con-
cern?"

"I would kill him for't," Burlingame replied, "but love him none the less."

"Marry, thou'rt come a wondrous way from London, where I left you!
Why did you not applaud my resolution to go home with Anna, seeing
'twas pure filial solicitude that prompted it?"

"You mistake me," Burlingame said. "I'd oppose it still, and Anna's
bending to his every humor. Were I his son I'd be disowned ere now for
flying in the face of his concern; but what a priceless prize it is, Eben!
What a wealthy man I'd be, to throw away such treasure! The fellow
repines in bed for grief at losing you; he dictates the course of your life
to make you worthy of your line! Who grieves for me, prithee, or cares
a fig be I fop or philosopher? Who sets me goals to turn my back on, or
values to thumb my nose at? In fine, sir, what business have I in the
world, what place to flee from, what credentials to despise? Had I a home
I'd likely leave it; a family alive or dead I'd likely scorn it, and wander a
stranger in alien towns. But what a burden and despair to be a stranger

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

to the world at large, and have no link with history! Tis as if I'd sprung
de novo like a maggot out of meat, or dropped from the sky. Had I the
tongue of angels I ne'er could tell you what a loneliness it is!"

"I cannot fathom it," Ebenezer declared. "Is this the man that stood in
Thames Street praising Heav'n he knew naught of his forebears?"

" Twas a desperate speech"— Burlingame smiled--"like a pauper's dia-
tribe on the sinfulness of wealth. When the twain of you had gone I felt
my loneliness as ne'er before, and thought long of Captain Salmon and
gentle Melissa that raised me. Do you recall that day in Cambridge when
you asked me how I came to be called Henry Burlingame the Third?"

"Aye, and you replied 'twas the name you'd bome from birth."

"I spent some hours grousing in my chamber," Burlingame said, "and
at length I came to see this pompous name of mine as the most precious
thing I owned. Who bestowed it on me? Wherefore Burlingame Third, and
not just Burlingame?"

"'Sheart, I see your meaning!" Ebenezer said. "Tis your name that
links you with your forebears; thou'rt not wholly ex nth&o after ail! Tis
a kind of clue to the riddle!"

Burlingame nodded. "And did I not profess to be a scholar?" He refilled
his glass with Bristol sherry. "Then and there I made myself a vow," he
said, "to learn the name and nature of my father, the circumstances of
my birth, and haply the place and manner of his death; nor would I value
any business higher, but ransack the very planet in my quest till I had
found my answer or died a-searching. And search I have— i'fauth!— these
seven years. Tis the one business of my life/'

''Then marry, I must hear the tale oft, that I've waited for too long
already. Drink off your sherry and commence^ nor will I stand for inter-
ruption till the tale be done."

"As you wish/' Burlingame said. He drank the wine and filled his pipe
besides, and told the following story:

"How should a man discover the history of his parentage when he knows
not whence he came or how, or even whether the name he bears hath
any authenticity? For think not I was blind to't, Eben, that my one hope
might be a false one; what evidence had I 'twas not some jest or happen-
stance, this name of mine, or perchance some other guardian's, that nursed
me up from infancy till Captain Salmon chanced along? It wants but pluck
to vow to build a bridge, yet pluck will never build it I cast about me for
a first step, and betook myself at last to Bristol, where I thougjhtt perchance
to find some that knew at least my Captain and recalled his orphan wand

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 147 ]

—and privily, 111 own, I prayed to meet some old and trusted friend of his,
or kin, that might know the full story of my origin. Twas not unthinkable
he might have told the tale, I reasoned, if not broadcast then at least to
one or two, unless there was some mighty sin about it."

Ebenezer frowned. "Such as what? The man you've pictured me ne'er
could stoop to kidnaping."

Burlingame pursed his lips and raised and let fall his hands. "He had no
children, to my knowledge, and the yen for sons can drive a man and
woman far. Moreover, 'twould be no great matter to achieve: Many's the
anchor that's dropped at dusk and weighed ere the sun comes up. Yet
'twas not kidnaping I mainly thought of, though I would not rule it out
— more likely, if he came by me improperly, 'twas that he'd got me on some
mistress in a port of call."

"Nay," said Ebenezer. "I have indeed read that the sailor is a great
philanderer, even at times a bigamist, by reason of his occupation, but
Captain Salmon, as I picture him, had neither the youth nor the temper for
such folly, the less so for that he was no common sailor, but master of a
vessel. Twere as unlike such a man to saddle himself with a bastard as
'twould be for Solomon to prattle nonsense or a Jew to strike fair bargains."

Burlingame smiled. "Which is but to say, 'tis not out of the question.
Follow Horace if you will when making verse— /fefez'Gs Ino, perftdus Ixion,
and the rest— but think not actual folk are e'er so simple. Many's the Jew
hath lost his shirt, and saint that hath in private leaped his houseboy. A
covetous man may be generous on occasion, and Even an emmet may seek
revenge. Again, though 'twere unlike Captain Salmon to sow wild oats,
'twere not at all unlike him, if his own plot would not bear, to seek a-pur-
pose a field more fruitful. Melissa may even have pressed him to."

"A wife incite her husband to be unfaithful?"

"'Twere no breach of faith, methinks, in such a case. Howbeit, no
matter: in the first place I thought it most likely he came by me in no
such sinister fashion, but simply took him in an orphan babe as any man
might who hath a Christian heart; in the second, I cared not a straw for
the manner of my getting so I could but discover it and my getter."

"And did you?"

Burlingame shook his head. "I found three or four old people that had
known Salmon and remembered his ungrateful charge: one told me, when
I revealed my name^ 'twas grief at my loss killed the Captain, and grief
o'er his killed Melissa. I yearn to credit that story, for fear my conscience
might accuse me else of fleeing such an awful responsibility; yet there is

[ 148 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

a temper wont to twist the past into a theater-piece, mistake the reasonable
for the historical, and sit like Rhadamanthus in everlasting judgment. This
man, I tell you reluctantly, was of that temper. In any case none knew
aught of my origin save that Captain Salmon had fetched me home from
somewhere, on his vessel. I asked then, who was the Captain's closet friend,
and who Melissa's? And each of the men among them claimed to be the
former, and each of the women the latter. Finally I asked whether any
remembered who was the mate on Salmon's ship in those days; but Bristol
is a busy port, where men change ships from voyage to voyage, and 'tis
unlikely they'd have known were't but one year before instead of thirty.
Yet as often happens, in asking someone else, I hit on the answer myself,
or if not the answer at least a fresh hope: a man called Richard Hill had
been first mate on all five voyages I had made with Captain Salmon, and
'twas my impression, more from their manner with each other than from
any plain statement, that he and the Captain were shipmates of some
years' standing. 'Twas not impossible he'd been mate on that voyage ten
years before, though 'twas a long chance; and if indeed he'd been, why,
'twas certain he'd know more than I about the matter, for 'tis hard to keep
such business from a first mate under any conditions, and perhaps unwise if
he's a trusted friend to boot. Of course, for aught I knew, this Hill might
be long dead, or finding him as hard a matter as finding my father "

"I grant you, I grant you!" Ebenezer broke in. "Prithee trust me to
appreciate your obstacles without enumeration, save such as advance the
story, and tell me quickly whether you overcame them. Did you find this
Hill fellow? And had he aught to tell you?"

"You must attend the haw oft/' Burlingame said; "else thou'rt as much
a Boeotian as he that reads the Iliad no farther than the invocation, where
the end oft all is plainly told. As't happened, none of my informants re-
called for certain this Richard Hill I spoke of, but two of them, who still
were wont to stroll about the wharves, declared there was a Richard Hill
in the tobacco fleet. Yet, though he sometimes called at Bristol, they told
me he was no Bristolman, nor even an Englishman, but either a Marylander
or a Virginian; nor was he a mate, but captain of his own vessel.

"This I took as good news rather than bad. When I had satisfied myself
that neither Captain Hill nor farther news of him was to be found in
Bristol at that time, I hastened back to London,"

"Not to the plantations?" Ebenezer asked, feigning disappointment
"Tis unlike you, Henry!"

"Nay, I was ready enough to sail for America," Burlingame replied, *1>ut:

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 149 ]

'Tzs -wiser to ask at the carriage-house than to chase off down the road.
London is the very liver and lights of the sot-weed trade; it took but half
a day there to learn that Captain Hill was in fact a Marylander, from
Anne Arundel County, and master of the ship Hope, which lay at that
very moment in the Thames with other 'vessels of the fleet, discharging
her cargo. I fairly ran down to the wharf where she lay and with some
difficulty (for I had no money) contrived an interview with Captain
Hill. But I had no need to ask my great question, for immediately
upon hearing my name he enquired whether I was Avery Salmon's boy,
that had jumped ship in Liverpool. I declared I was, and when we had
done shaking our heads at my youthful folly and singing the praises of
Captain Salmon (who, however, he told me had died of tumors and not
grief), told him the purpose of my visit and besought him to give me any
information he migjht have on that head.

" 'Why/ he declared, 'I was not Avery's mate in those days, Henry. I
know what there is to know oft, and no more/

" 'And prithee what is that?'

" 'Naught but what ye know already/ said he: 'that ye was fished like
a jimmy-crab from the waves of the Chesapeake/ "

"Stay!" Ebenezer cried. "I've ne'er heard you speak oft, Henry!"

" 'Twas as new to me then as to you now/' Burlingame said. "I expressed
your surprise tenfold and assaulted Captain Hill with questions. When at
length I convinced him I was a perfect stranger to the matter,, he explained
'twas in the early part of 1654 or *55> *° the best of his memory, during
a ran up the Chesapeake from Piscataway to Kent Island, Captain Salmon's
vessel had come upon an empty canoe driven before the wind. The sailors
guessed 'twas blown from some salvage Indian and would have taken no
further note of it, save that on passing closer they heard strange cries issuing
from it. Word was sent to Captain Salmon, who ordered the vessel hove to
and sent a boat over to investigate."

"Many, Henry!" Ebenezer said breathlessly. "Was't you?"

"Aye, a lad of two or three months, stark naked and like to perish of
the cold. My hands and feet were bound with rawhide, and on my
skin, like a sailor's tattoo, was writ the name Henry Burlingame III, in
small red letters. They fetched me aboard "

"Wait, I pray you! I must assimilate these wonders,, that you drop as
light as goose-dung! Naked and tattooed, i'faithl Is't still to be seen?"

"Nay, 'tis long since faded."

"But how came you to be there? Surely 'twas some villainy!"

[150] THE SOX-WEED FACTOR

"No man knows," Burlingame said. "The canoe and the thongs where-
with I was bound bespoke salvagery, yet there's not a salvage in the country
knows his letters, to my knowledge, and my skin and scalp were whole."

"Agad!" Ebenezer cried. "What creature is't could bear such malice to
a silly babe, that not content to do him to death, must do't in such a hard
and lingering fashion?"

" Tis a mystery to this day. In any case, Captain Salmon had me clapped
under coverlets in his own cabin, where for ten days and nights I hung
'twixt here and hereafter, and fed me on fresh goat's milk. At length my
fever abated and my health returned; Captain Salmon took a fancy to me
and resolved ere his ship returned to Bristol I would be his son. More than
this my Captain Hill knew naught, and though 'twas volumes more than
erst Fd known, yet so far from laying my curiosity, it but pricked him up
the more, I offered then and there to join the Hope's crew for the voyage
back to Maryland, where I meant to turn the very marshes inside out for
clues."

"Twas a desperate resolve, was't not?** Ebenezer smiled* "The more
since you knew not whence the canoe had blown, or where the ship o'er-
took it."

"It was indeed," Burlingame agreed, "though a desperate resolve may
sometimes meet success* In any case, 'twas that or give over my quest. I
had a fortnight's time ere the Hope sailed, and like a proper scholar I ran-
sacked the records of the Customs-house, My end this time was to search
out all the Burlingames in Maryland, for once in the Province I meant
to make my way to each, by fair means or foul, and dig for what I sought
Who could say but that one among their number mi^ht have sired me?"

"Well," said Ebenezer, "and did you find any?"

Burlingame shook his head* 'To the best of my knowledge not a man
or woman of that name lives now in the Province,, or hath ever rince its
founding. Next I resolved to search the records of all the other provinces
in like manner, working north and south in turn from Maryland. The
task was rendered harder by the many changes in grants and charters over
the years, and farther by the fear of civil war, which ever works a wondrous
ruin to the custom clerk's faith in his fellow man. I started on Virginia,
working back from the current year, but ere I'd got past Cromwell's time
my fortnight was run, and off I sailed to Maryland/' Burlingame smiled
and tapped ashes from his pipe, "Had the wind held bad another fortnight,
Fd have found somewhat to fan my hopes enormously. As 'twas, I waited
near two years to find it"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [151]

was that? News of your father?"

"Nay, Eben— of that gentleman I know no more today than I knew then,
nor of my mother or myself/'

"Ah, 'twere better you'd not told me that," Ebenezer declared, clucking
his tongue, "for it spoils the story. What man could pleasure in a quest,
or the tale of one, that he knew ere he launched it was in vain?"

"Would you have me forego the rest?" Burlingame asked. "The news
was merely of my grandfather, or so I believe— I've come to know some-
what of that fellow, at least."

"Ah, thou'rt teasing me, then!"

Burlingame nodded and stood up. "I know no more of my father than
before, but 'tis not to say I'm no nearer knowing. No indeed. Howbeit,
the tale shall have to keep."

"What! Thou'rt not affronted, Henry?"

"Nay, nay," Burlingame replied. "But I hear our driver harnessing the
team in the yard. Stretch your legs a bit, lad, and relieve thyself ere we

go-"

"But surely you'll take up the tale again?" Ebenezer pleaded.

Burlingame shrugged, " 'Twere better you slept if you can. If not, why
then 'tis good to have a tale to wait the dawn with."

At that moment the new driver burst in, cursing the rain,, and told the
travelers to make ready for departure. Accordingly they went outside,
where a high March wind was whipping the light rain into spray.

5: BURLINGAME'S TALE CONTINUED, TILL ITS TELLER
FALLS ASLEEP

ONCE SETTLED IN THE CARRIAGE FOR THE SECOND LEG OF THEIR JOURNEY,

Ebenezer and Burlingame tried to sleep, but found the road too rough.
Despite their weariness, a half hour of pitching and bouncing persuaded
them the attempt was vain, and they gave it up.

"Fie on it," Ebenezer sighed. "Time enough to rest in the grave, as
Father says/*

"True enough," Burlingame agreed, "though to put it off too long is
but to get there the sooner."

At Ebenezer's suggestion they filled and lit their pipes. Then the poet

[ 152 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

declared, "As for me, I welcome the postponement. Were my bladder full
of Lethean dew instead of Bristol sherry, I still could ne'er forget the tale
you've told me, nor hope to sleep till I've heard it out"

"Thou'rt not bored with it?"

"Bored! Saving only the history of your travels with the gypsies, which
you told me years ago in Cambridge, I ne'er have heard such marvels!
Tis well I know thee a stranger to pervarication, else 'twere hard to credit
such amazements."

"Methinks then I had best leave off," Burlingame said, "for no man
knows another's heart for certain, and what I've said thus far is but a tuning
of the strings, as't were."

"Prithee strike 'em, then, without delay, and trust me to believe you."

'Very well. 'Tis not so deadly long a story, but I must own 'tis a passing
tangled one, with much running hither ^ad thither and an army of names
to bear in mind."

"The grapes are no fewer on a tangled vin^ Ebenezer replied, and
Burlingame without further prelude resumed his tale:

"Twould have pleased Dick Hill well enough," he said, "to keep me
in his crew, for a week aboard caused all my sailor's craft, which I'd not
rehearsed for over fifteen years, to spring to mind. But once in Maryland
I left his vessel and, not wishing to bind myself to one location by teach-
ing, I took a post on Hill's plantation,"

"Was't not equally confining?" Ebenezer asked.

"Not for long, I began by keeping his books— for 'tis a rare planter there
can do sums properly. Soon I so gained his confidence that he trusted me
with the entire management of his sot-weed holdings on the Severn, de-
claring that though 'twas too considerable a business to let go, yet he had
small love for't, and had rather spend his time a-sailoring "

"I'faith, then thou'rt a Maryland sot-weed planter before me! I must
hear how you managed it."

"Another time," Burlingame replied, "for here the story makes sail and
weighs its anchor. Twas 1688, and the provinces were in as great a ferment
as England over Papist and Protestant. In Maryland and New England
trouble was particularly rife: Baltimore himself and most of the Maryland
Council were Catholics, and both the Governor and Lieutenant Governor
of New England— Sir Edmund Andros and Francis Nicholson— ww also
known to be no enemies of King James. The leader of &e Maryland
rebels was one John Goode— -"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Aye, I had that name from Baltimore," Ebenezer said. "He is the false
priest that snatched the government/'

"An extraordinary fellow, Eben, I swear't! Haply you'll meet him, for
he's still at large. His counterpart in New York was Jacob Leisler, who
had designs on Nicholson. Now it happened that winter that Leisler came
to Maryland for the purpose of conniving with Coode. Word had just
reached us of King William's landing, and 'twas their design to strike to-
gether, the one at St. Mary's, the other at New York. To be brief, Captain
Hill got wind oft and sent me to New York in January, ere Leisler returned,
to warn Nicholson."

"Then Captain Hill is a Papist?"

"No more than you or I," Burlingame replied. " Twas not a matter of
faith, in Maryland. Old Coode is no more for William than for James:
'tis government itself he loathes, and any kind of orderl Leisler's but a fop
beside him."

"May I never meet this Coode!" said Ebenezer. "Did you reach New
York?"

"Aye, and Nicholson swore like a cannoneer at the news I brought him.
He himself had come to Andros in '86 as captain of an Irish Papist troop,
and in New York he'd celebrated the birth of James's son; he knew well
the rebels marked him for a Romanist and would lose no chance to turn
him out. He tried in vain to keep the news suppressed, and inasmuch as
Dick Hill had placed me at his service, he sent me on to Boston to warn
Andros. I gained the confidence of both men, and at my own request
spent the next few months as private messenger betwixt them— my virtue
being that I was not a member of their official family and hence could
move with ease among the rebels. Nay, I will own I more than once took
it upon myself to pass as one of their number, and thus was able on oc-
casion to report their doings to the Governor."

"But thou'rt fearless, Henry!"

"Eh? Ah well, fearless or no, I did the cause of order small good. The
rebels seized Andros that spring, as soon as they heard of William's progress,
and clapped him in the Boston jail. In New York they spread a tale that
Nicholson meant to fire the town, and on the strength of it Leisler mustered
force enough to take the garrison."

"What of Nicholson? Did he escape?"

"Aye," said Burlingame. "In June he fled by ship for London, and for
all Leisler called him a privateer, he got back safely."

[ 154] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Safely!" Ebenezer cried. "Was't not a case of frying pan to fire, to See
from Leisler into William's arms?"

Burlingame laughed. "Nay, Eben, Old Nick is not so simple a fool as
that,, as you shall see betimes."

"Well, what of thee, Henry? Did you make your way back to Maryland?"

"Nay again, for that were a leap to the fire indeed! Twas in July that
Coode made his play, and by August had the Governor's Council besieged
in the Mattapany blockhouse. Nay, I stayed behind in New England— first
in New York and then, when Nicholson was safely out, in Boston. My
design was to get Sir Edmund Andros out of Castle Island prison.*'

"B'm'faith!" said Ebenezer, " Tis a tale out of Esquemeling!"

"In more ways than .one," Burlingame replied with a smile* "There lay
in Boston harbor an English frigate, the Ro$#, designed to guard the local
craft from pirates. John George, her captain, was friend enough of Andros
that the rebels held him hostage, lest he bombard the town for the
Governor's release. Twas my wish to do exactly that, if need be, and spirit
him off to France aboard the Ro$0."

"However did you manage it?"

"I didn't, though 'twas no fault of my plan, I found nie a friend of
Captain George's named Thomas Pound, a pilot and mapmaker, who was
ready for a price to show his loyalty to Andros. The Governor escaped,
and five days later we slipped out of the harbor into Massachusetts Bay,
put on the guise of pirates, and commenced to harass the fishing fleet/'

"'Sbodyl"

"Twas our intention so to nettle them that at last they'd send out
Captain George in the Row frigate to reduce us; then we'd sail to Rhode
Island, pick up Andros, and set our course for France. But ere we'd brought
them to such straits, word reached us Andros was already recaptured and
on his way to England."

"In any case," Ebenezer said, "'twas a worthy attempt/'

"Belike it was, to start with," Burlingame replied. "But as't turned out,
when Tom Pound learned 'twas all for naught, he was in a pickle: he
could not sail into Boston harbor lest he be hanged for a pirate; nor could
he cross to France for lack of provision. The upshot of it was, we turned
to doing in earnest what before we'd feigned/'

"Nay, f God!"

"Aye and we did; turned pirate, and prowled the northern coast for prey/'

"But marry, Henry— you were with them?"

" Twas that or be thrown to the fishes, Eben. Aye, I fought along with

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ X55 ]

the rest nor can I say in truth I loathed it, though I felt it wrong. There
is a charm in outlawry that the good man little dreams of. ... Tis a
liquor "

"I pray you were not long drunk with it!" Ebenezer said. "It seems a
perilous brew."

"Tis no pap for sucklings, I must own. For full two months Pound
robbed and plundered, though he seldom got aught for his pain save salt
pork and fresh water. In October he was set oti by a Boston sloop off
Martha's Vineyard, and every soul aboard killed or wounded. I, thank
Heav'n, had made my escape some weeks before, in Virginia, and inasmuch
as I'd assumed another name throughout my stay in New England, I little
feared detection. I made the best oft back to Maryland and rejoined Dick
Hill in Anne Arundel, who'd long since given me up for dead. I was the
more anxious to leave Pound for that John Coode knew Captain Hill for
an enemy and was sure to work him some injury ere long. Moreover, I had
another reason, more selfish, it may be, but no less pressing: I had word
that there were Burlingames in Virginia!"

"Nay, 'tis marvelous!" cried Ebenezer. "Kin of thine?"

"That I knew not, nor whether any were yet alive; I had it only that
a Burlingame— in sooth .a Henry Burlingame— was among the very first
to settle in that dominion, and I meant to find excuse to go there and
make enquiries."

"How ever came you to hear oft, while you sailed willy-nilly o'er the
ocean? Tis of the stature of a miracle!"

"No miracle, or 'tis an odd God worked it. The tale is no marvel of
brevity, Eben."

"Yet it must be told," Ebenezer insisted.

Burlingame shrugged. "As you wish. Twas while I was with Pound, at
the height of his pirating. Our usual prey was small merchantmen and
coasting vessels; we would overhaul them, steal what pleased us, and turn
'em loose, offering hurt to none save those who made to resist us. But
once when a nor'easter ha<J blown us into Virginian waters we came upon
2n ancient pinnace at the mouth of the York River, bound up the Chesa-
peake, which, when we had turned out all her crew for looting, we found
to carry three passengers besides: a coarse fellow of fifty years or so; his
wife, who was some years younger; and their daughter, a girl not yet turned
twenty. She was an uncommon tasty piece, by the look of her, dark-haired
and spirited, and her mother not much less. At the sight of them our men
put by all thought of plunder, which had in truth been lean, and made to

[156] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

swive the twain of 'em then and there. Captain Pound durst not say them
nay, albeit he was himself opposed to violence, for such was their ferocity,
having seen nor hide nor hair of woman, as't were, since we sailed from
Boston, they'd have mutinied on the spot. And had I made the smallest
move to stay them, they'd have flung me in an instant to the fishes!

'In a trice the ruffians stripped 'em and fetched 'em to the rail Tis e'er
the pirates' wont to take their captives at the rail, you know, whether bent
on't backwards or triced hand to foot o'ertop. A mate of mine saw a maid
once forced by thirteen brigands in the former manner, with the taffrail at
the small of her back, till at last they broke her spine and heaved her over.
Tis but to make the thing more cruel, methinks, they do it thus; Captain
Hill once told me of an old French rogue he'd met in Martinique, that
swore no woman pleased him save when staring at the sharks who'd have
her when the rape was done, and that having once tasted such refined
delights he ne'er could roger mistresses ashore "

"No more, I pray you!" Ebenezer cried* "Tis not a history of the
salvagery I crave, but news of the hapless victims."

"Thou'rt overly impatient, then/* Burlingame said mildly. The vilest
deed hath a lesson in it for him who craves to learn. Howbeit, where did
I leave the women?"

"At the ship's rail, with their virtue in extremis.*'
"Ah, indeed, 'twas a bad hour to be female, for sixteen men lined up to
ravage 'em. The husband all the while was begging mercy for himself, with
never a word for the women, and the wife resisting with all her strength;
but the girl, when she saw the pirate's design, spoke quickly to her mother
in French, which none aboard could ken save me, and she made no re-
sistance, but asked the sailors calmly, with a French cast to her voice, which
they had more use for, her chastity or a hundred pounds apiece? At first the
men ignored her, so taken were they by the sight of her unclothed.
But all the way to the tail she pled her case-or rather posed her offer,
for her voice was cold and merchantlike. She was of French nobility, she
declared, and her mother likewise, and should they meet with injury the
entire crew would surely hang fort; but if they were set free unscathed, every
man aboard would have a hundred pounds within the week,

"Here I saw a chance to aid them, if I could but stay the pirates' lust a
moment. To that end I joined their fondling-even pushed some others
aside and forced her to the rail myself, as if to take first place-but
then delayed, and when she made again her offer I cried, 'Hold back,
mates, and let us hear the wench out ere we caulk her. Tis many a tart

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 157 3

we could have with a hundred pounds.' I reminded them further of our
plan to cross to France when we'd had our fill of pirating, and questioned
whether 'twere prudent so to imperil our reception there. My chief intention
was to stay them for a time at least and make them reflect, for reflection is
a famous foe of violence— 'tis a beast indeed who rapes on second thought!
So far did the strategem succeed, that the men began to jeer and scoff at
the proposal, but made no farther move for the nonce.

" 'How is't ye ladies of the court be sailing on such a privy as this?'
one asked, and the daughter replied they were not rich, but had only wealth
enough to pay their promised ransom and would be paupers after. Another
asked profanely of the mother, How was't a noblewoman thought no
better of her noble arse than to wed it to that craven lout her husband?
This I thought a sharper question, for he was indeed a coarse and common
tradesman, by the look of him. But the daughter $poke rapidly in French,
and the lady replied, that her husband came from one of Virginia's grand-
est families. To which the daughter added, If you must know, 'twas a
marriage of convenience,' and went on to say in effect,, that even as her
father had bought her mother's honor with his estate, so now she would
buy it back from us, for that same estate. The men took this merrily and
heaped no end of ridicule upon the husband, who was like to beshit him-
self with fright upon the deck. They were now of half a mind to swive
and half to take the hundred pounds, but scarce knew whether or not
to credit the women's story.

"Now you must know that 'twas my wont whenever I met a stranger
to enquire of him, Had he ever known a wight by name of Burlingame?
And would explain, I had a friend called Henry Burlingame Third, who
greatly wished to prove he was no bastard. All the men aboard had got
accustomed to't, and made it their jest to speak amongst themselves of
Henry Burlingame Third as some grand fellow whom all must know. For
this reason, when the lady had made her speech a wag amongst us said,
'If he be a great Virginia gentleman, then surely he must know Sir Henry
Burlingame, the rtoblest Virginian that ever shat on sot-weed.' And he
added that if they knew him not they must needs be impostors, and to
the rail with 'em. At this methought the game was done,, inasmuch as 'twas
but a fool's test, to give excuse for swiving. But the maid replied, she did
indeed know of a Henry Burlingame of Jamestown, that had come thither
with the first settlers and declared himself a knight, and she went on to
say, by way of proof, that 'twas much doubted in her circle whether he
was in truth of noble origin.

[ 158 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"At this the men were much surprised, none more than myself, and I
resolved to risk my life, if need be, to spare theirs so I might query them
farther on this head. I declared to the men that all the wench had said
of Burlingame was true, and that for my part I believed the whole of
her tale and was ready to trade her maidenhead for a hundred pounds.
The greater part of the men seemed ready enough to do the same, now their
first ardor was cooled— the more for that our pirating ere then had yielded
little profit. Captain Pound raised then the question of hostages, and it was
resolved that one of their number must remain behind till the ransom was
paid, and forfeit life and honor if 'twere not At this, mother and daughter
spoke briefly in French, after which each pleaded to be left as hostage,
so that the father might be spared,"

44 'Sheart, what solicitude!" Ebenezer cried 'The wretch merited no such
affection!"

Burlingame laughed, "So't appeared to all the crew save me, who followed
clearly what was said. Know, Eben, that these fine women were bald
impostors. The daughter had conceived the ruse and told it to her mother
in French. And when the matter of hostages arose, the mother had said
Tray God they will take Harry, for then we'd be quit of him for fair, and
not a penny poorer/ And the maiden's brave reply was, * Tis sure they will
take thee or me for swiving, unless we persuade them of his value/ 'FoghP
had cried the mother. The beast hath not the value of bou&m#rdef~~
which is to say, the droppings of a billy goat To this the maid replied,
that such exactly were her sentiments, and the only recourse was to offer
themselves and plead for his release relying on our gullibility.

"The men at first ignored the bait, until I asked the ladies Wherefore
their devotion, seeing he was such a craven brute, who had shown no con-
cern for them at all what time we made to swive them, but blubbered
only for himself? To which the maid replied, that though 'twas true he
cared naught for them and had liefer part with both than lose ten crown,
yet they did adore him as foolish women will, and would perish ere they
saw him injured. The husband was so entirely astonished by this speech,
that at first he could not speak for rage and tenor, and ere he could collect
himself I declared that clearly he was not to be trusted ashore but must
be our hostage, and the ladies sent for the ransom, inasmuch as their de-
votion to him assured their return. The men were most reluctant to set
the wenches free, but Captain Pound saw reason in my aiguznent, and
ordered it so. The fellow was sent below in chains, the ladies fetched new
clothing from their chests, and a boat was made ready to cany them
ashore; but ere it left I got the Captain's ear in secret, aad implored him

THE SOT-WEEI> FACTOR [ 159]

to send me with them to guarantee their return, inasmuch as I could under-
stand their tongue, unknown to them, and would thus be forewarned of
any treachery. He was loath to let me go, but at length I prevailed upon
him, and rowed off with the ladies in a longboat. The plan was that Pound
should go a-pirating for some weeks and come again to the Capes where I
would rejoin him at the end of September. Moreover, to quiet the suspicions
of the crew, and their envy of my lot, I declared to them aside that I would
have the women themselves bring the ransom aboard, which once secured,
they could be swived till the rail gave way!"

"Henry!" Ebenezer exclaimed. "Can't be that "

"Hold on/* Burlingame interrupted, "till the tale is done. We were put
ashore near Accomac, on Virginia's Eastern Shore, whence we were to start
our journey to the ladies' home. Twas dark when we landed, for we feared
detection, and we resolved to go no farther until dawn, but make a fire
upon the beach wherewith to warm ourselves. As we watched the pirates
make sail and get under way in the moonlight, both women wept for very
joy, and the mother said, in French, 'God bless you, Henrietta; you have
rid us of .the pirates and your father in a single stroke!" The maid replied,
'Rather bless this fellow with us, who is so wondrous stupid to believe my
lies/ Indeed,' said the mother. 'Who'd have looked for such a fool 'neath
such a handsome skin?' At this they laughed at their boldness, little dream-
ing I could grasp their every word, and to carry the sport yet farther the
maid declared, 'Aye, in sooth he is a pretty fellow, mother, such as you
nor I have never spent a night with/ 'Nor would ever/ said the other,
Tiad we not got shed of Harry. I must own that had he made the threat
alone, I'd have let him have his rape and saved our money. Yet I'd not
have wished thee touched/ 'Oh la/ the maid replied, 'think not I plan to
lose a penny: the handsome wretch will fall asleep anon, and we shall
either flee or do him to death. As for my maidenhead, 'tis but a champagne
cork to me, which must be popped ere the pleasantries commence/ And
looking me in the eye, she said for a tease, 'What say you, fellow: veux-tu
&tre man tire-bouchon? Eh? Veux-tu me vriller want que je te tue?' "

"I know not the tongue/' said Ebenezer, "but the sound is far from
chaste."

"Shame on you, then, that you have not learned it," Burlingame scolded.
" Tis a marvelous tongue for wooing in. I cannot tell how fetching 'twas
to hear such lewdness spoke in such sweet tones. 'Poingonne-tu mon petit
I hear't yet, i'faith, and sweat and shiver! I saw no need to carry

the deception farther, and so replied in faultless Paris French, ' Twill be
an honor, mademoiselle et madame, nor need you kill me after, for your

[ ifo ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

joy at leaving those brigands behind doth not exceed my own/ They had
like to perish of astonishment and shame on hearing me, the maid es-
pecially; but when I explained how I had come to be among the pirates,
and what it was I sought, they were soon pacified— nay, cordial, even more
than cordial. They could scarce leave off expressing gratitude, and, seeing
the cat was out of the bag, we spent the night a-sporting on the sand."

"A pretty tale indeed, if not a virtuous," Ebenezer said. "But did you
learn no more of that old Burlingame, for whom you'd saved the ladies?"

"Aye," said Burlingame. "That same night I queried them whether 'twas
but a fiction they'd contrived regarding Burlingame. And the maid replied
'twas no fiction at all, that her father was a great pretender to distinction,
who, though he was in fact a bastard, was much concerned to glorify his
lineage and was forever running hither and thither for ancient records,
which his daughter had to search for the family name. Twas for just that
cause they'd made the trip to Jamestown, where 'mid numerous musty pa-
pers she'd found what looked to be some pages of a journal writ by one
Henry Burlingame. Howbeit, she gave it but a cursory reading, seeing it
made no mention of her family, and recalled only that it spoke of some
journey or other from Jamestown; that Captain John Smith was the leader;
and that there seemed some ill feeling 'twixt him and the author of the
journal Past that she'd read no more nor could remember aught Twas
not long ere I'd had my fill of amorosities— for thirty-five hath no great
stamina in such matters— and fell asleep beside the fire. When the sun
aroused me in the morning I found the women gone, not have I seen
them since. Twas delicacy, methinks, that moved them ere I waked— fall
many a deed smells sweet at night that stinks in the heat of the sun, What's
more, their reputations were secure, for at no time since we'd overhauled
their ship had they revealed their names, nor more of where they lived
save that 'twas on the Eastern Shore of Maryland,"

"And did you make your way thence to Jamestown?*

"Nay, to Anne Arundel County and Captain Hill I wanted sore to learn
whether Coode had harmed him, and too I had not a farthing about me
wherewith to eat Twas my design to work awhile for Hill and then pursue
my quest, for I will own I was not indifferent toward the politics of the
place, and would have welcomed another mission like the one I'd just
returned from."

'Thou'rt a glutton for adventure,0 Ebenezer said.

''Mayhap I am, or better, a glutton for the great world, of which I ne'er
can see and learn enough."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ l6l ]

Til warrant Captain Hill was pleased to, see you, and surprised!"
"He was in sooth, for he had heard naught of me since Leisler's re-
bellion in New York, and feared me dead. He said his positibn was most
perilous, inasmuch as Coode and his men were daily laying waste his
enemies' estates, and had spared his either through caprice or uncertainty
as to Hill's influence in England. Twas Coode's conceit to call himself
Masaniello, after the rebel of Naples; Colonel Henry Jowles of Calvert
County, his chief lieutenant, played Count Scamburgh; Colonel Ninian
Beale the Earl of Argyle; and Kenelm Cheseldyne, the speaker of the As-
sembly, was Speaker Williams. While they played at court in this manner,
and bragged and plundered down in St. Mary's, I spent the winter putting
Hill's estate in order. Whene'er 'twas useful I made excursions about the
province to the end of fomenting opposition in the several counties, and
in the spring, when he got wind oft, Coode resolved to do us in. He
trumped up a charge of treasonable speech and dispatched no fewer than
forty men to destroy us. They seized the ship Hope, which Captain Hill
had been at seven hundred pounds' expense to fit out for a voyage, and
rifled the estate, and 'twas only our good fortune in escaping to the woods
preserved our lives.

"I went at first to sundry other sea captains, friends of Hill's and enemies

of Colonel Coode "

"Colonel!" Ebenezer broke in. "Methought he was a priest!"
"The man is whate'er he chooses to call himself," Burlingame replied.
"He owns to no authority save himself, and is a rebel 'gainst man and
God alike. In any case, I learned from these men that Francis Nicholson,
deposed by Leisler as a Jacobite, was now lieutenant governor of Virginia
(which is to say the chief officer, since the governor lives in England )»
and this by order of King William himself! It seems the King little bothers
what a man is called by his enemies, so long as he doth his job well, and
in sooth Old Nick is the veiy devil of a governor for all his faults. These
tidings fell sweetly on my ear, inasmuch as Nicholson was the very man
who'd best protect us, and Jamestown the very place I wished to go. I had
Hill's friends write letters to Nicholson, describing Coode's barbarity and
asking asylum for the Captain and his house, and ere June was done we
were in Jamestown. 'Masaniello' and his crew begged and threatened
Nicholson by turns to get their hands on us, but de'il the good it did him.
'Tis both a fault and a virtue in Virginia, that fugitives from Maryland
e'er find haven there."

[ 162 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"But did you find the precious journal-book you sought?" asked Eben-
ezer. "Or was't but a tale of a cock and a bull the lass on the strand had
spun thee? Prithee put me off no farther on the matter; I must know whether
such an odyssey bore fruit!"

Burlingame laughed. "Make not such haste to reach the end, Eben; it
spoils the pace and mixes the figures. Whoever saw an odyssey bear fruit?*'

"Tease no more!" Ebenezer cried.

"Very well, Master Laureate: I did indeed lay hands upon the journal,
what oft there was; what's more, I made a copy of it, faithful to the
letter save for one or two dull passages that I summarized. I have it here
in my coat, and in the morning you shall read it. Suffice it now to say,
I am persuaded 'tis a bona fide journal of Sir Henry Burlingame^ but
whether or no the fellow is my ancestor I've still no proof/'

"Ffaith, I'm glad you found it, and scarce can wait till dawn! Tis good
thy tale is not yet done, else 'twere a hard matter to feet away the hours.
What wondrous thing befell you next?"

"No more tonight/' Burlingame declared. 'The road is smoother here,
and the night's nigh done. The balance of the tale can wait till Plymouth/'
So saying, he would hear no protest from Ebenezer, but stretching out his
legs as best he could, went to sleep at once. The poet, however, was less
fortunate: try as he might, he could not manage even to keep his eyes
closed, much less resign himself to sleep, though his head throbbed from
weariness. Again his mind was filled with names, the names first heard from
Baltimore and now fleshed out by Burlingame's narration, and figures awful
in their energy and purpose prowled his fancy— his friend and tutor first
among them.

6: BURLINGAME'S TALE CARRIED YET FARTHER; THE
LAUREATE READS FROM THE PR1V1E /QURNALL OF SIR
HENRY BURLINGAME AND DISCOURSES ON THE
NATURE OF INNOCENCE

WHEN AFTER DAWN THE TRAVELERS STOPPED FOR THEIR MORNING MEAt

at Yeovil, Ebenezer demanded at once to see the document Burlingame
had spoken of, but his tutor lefused to hear of it until they'd eaten- Then,
the sun having come out warm and bright, they retired outside to smoke

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 163 ]

and stretch their legs, and Burlingame fetched several folded sheets from
the pocket of his coat. Atop the first the poet read The Privie Jourhdl of
Sir Henry Burlingame.

"I should explain the title's mine/' said Burlingame. "As you can see,
the journal is a fragment, but the journey it describes is writ in John Smith's
Generdl Historie. Twas in January of 1607, the first winter of the colony,
and they traveled up the Chickahominy River to find the town of Powhatan,
Emperor of the Indians. There was much ill feeling against Captain Smith
in Jamestown at the time: some were alarmed at his machinations to un-
seat President Wingfield and President Ratcliffe; others charged him with
flaunting the instructions of the London Company,, in that he wasted little
time searching for gold or for a water passage to the East; others yet were
merely hungry, and thought he should arrange for trade with Powhatan.
Tis plain the voyage up the Chickahominy was a happy expedient, for't
promised solution to all these grievances! the Captain would be out of
politics for a while, for one thing, and some declared the Chickahominy
ran west to the Orient; in any case, 'twas almost certain the Emperor's
town lay not many miles upriver. Smith tells in his Historie how he was
made captive by one of Powhatan's lieutenants, called Opecancanough,
and escaped death by means of magical tricks with his compass. He swears
next he was carried alone to Powhatan, condemned to death, and saved
by intercession of the Emperor's daughter. His version oft I have writ there
under the title."

Ebenezer read the brief superscription:

Being ready with their clubs, to beate out his braines, Pocahontas, the
Kings dearest daughter, when no entreaty could prevaile, got his head in
her armes, and laid her owne upon his to save him from death; whereat
the Emperour was contented he should live to make him hatchets, and
her bells, beads, and copper; for they thought him as well of dH occupa-
tions as themselves.

"Ffaith," he said, " 'tis a marvelous rescue!"

" Tis a marvelous romance," Burlingame corrected, "for the substance
of the Journall is, that this Burlingame witnessed the whole proceeding,
which was not so wondrous heroic after all. I'll say no more, but leave
you to read the piece without delay."

So saying, Burlingame went inside the inn, and Ebenezer, finding a
bench in the sun, made himself comfortable and read in the Journall as
follows:

[ 164 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

The Privie Journdl of Sir Henry Burlingame

I ... had divers times caution* d [Smith], that our guide, a rascaHie Salvage
that had liefer sted f purse than look at you, was nowise to be trusted, he being,
doubtless in the pay of the Em^ [Powhatan]. But he w* none of this, and
when, the River growing too shdlowe for our vessels, this same Salvage proposed
we walk overland to the E1*** towne, w*k he claimed wets hard bye, our Ca**
agreed at once, maugre the fact, w*h I poynted out to himf that the 'woods there
were thick as any jungle, and we w* be $ett upon with ease by hostile Salvages.
The Ca** made the usuall rejoynders, that he ever rnaketh on being shown his
ignorance and follie, to witt: that I was a coward* a parasite, a lillie-liver'd infant,
and belike an Eunuch into the bargain. This lost, he regordeth as the suprem-
est insult he can hurl, for that he him selfe taketh inordinate pride in his virHitie,
In sooth, such a devotee of Venus is oar O*, that rare are th* times when
he doth not boast openlie, and in the lewdest terms, of his conquests and feats
of love dl over the Continent and among the Moors, Turks, and Africkans.
He fancieth him self a Master of Vonwedl Arts, md boa&eth to have known
carruxUie every kind of Woman on Earth, in all of Arttines positions. In addition
to w°*, he owneth an infamous lott of croticka collected in his tr&vtis, items
from w°* he oft dtepkyeth to certain of us privSi*, with dl the mwggnim of <*
Connoisseur. More of this anon, but I may not* here, that fudging from our
O'« preoccupation with these thingp, w**ofta$not represent unnatwatt as mU
as naturdt vices, I w* be no whit surprised to learn, that h& taste comprehend
more than those of t he common libertine . * * *

[The Author here describes, how the party goetfa ashote, and is fed by their
treacherous guide into the hands of the Indians.]

The Salvages then setting upon w, as had him prt dkrfrdf by mm uriatr thm
our O*, we fought them off <ts fast w* c*9 with muM wxxs*, for th* qu&tm
were close and our attaekm virtual!** atop iw. Our Jwder, /or his part, shrtwdli*
puWd that Ganelon our Guide before him for a shield, and retreated in afl haste,
exhorting us the while to fight like men, HappUi*, he caught his foot upon a
root of cyprm, and flew backward off th* b&& into th* mud md >ct. Th*
Sdva%e$ having by tfcfe time captur*d us, leapt upon him, md held him fast on
his back, and on our informing them, in r*spons* to th*r* gum*, Who iw our
leader? that it was he, there Chief, Opecm&mougfi, md his stmeil Ueutmemte,
pleas' d them selves openlie, md us private, by thereupon mofemg water upon ftitn,
each in his turn according to rank.

[The prisoners, of w<* there are five, are cany'd to a clearing, where they
are tied one at a time to a sweetgum tree and shot with arrows, till none but
Smith and Burlingame remain,]

^,m,
to the same fate suffer'd by the others. A gentleman to the md [Smith] . . .
modestlie suggested, that I precede him. Be't said, that in matter* of thi* sort
my owne generositie i$ peer to any mans, and hod it protfd r*ce$s<me, I ***

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 165 ]

stoutlie have declined my C°P*« gesture. Howbeit, Opecancanough pay*d no heed,
but him selfe taking the C^ by the arme, pull'd him toward the bloodie tree.
At this juncture, the C0** (who afterwards confided to me, he was searching for
his Africkan good-luck peece) withdrew from his coat a packet of little colour7 d
cards, the w°\ with seeming innocence, he let fall to the grvwnd. The Salvages
at once became arows'd, and scrabl'd one atop the other, to see who SM retrieve
the most. Upon examining them, they, found the cards to portray, in vivid colours,
Ladies and Gentlemen mother-naked, partaking of sundrie amorosities one with
another: in parties of two, three, four, and even five, these persons were shown
performing licentious feats, the w°h to be performed in actuall life wd want, in
addition to uncommon lubricitie, considerable imagination and no small tallent
for gymnastick.

One can fancie with what whoops and howls of glee the Salvages received
these works of the pornographers art, for Salvages are a degenerate race, little
rais'd above the beastes they hunt, and as such share with white men of the same
stamp a love for all that is filthie and salacious. They at least had in their favour,
that they had never before seen a white woman cloth'd, much less uncloth'd,
and how much less indulging in such anticks as were now reveal9 d to them. They
laught and shouted, and snatch'd the cards from one another, to see them all.

[They] ask'd [Smith], Whether he had more [of the cards]? Whereat he took
the opportunitie to draw from his pocket a small compasse, the wonder of which
was (for I had seen it before, to my abashment), that not only did it shew the
poynts of the compasse, woh marvett alone wd methinks have suffic'd to awe the
Salvages ... it dso, by virtue of tinie paintings on small peeces of glass mounted
inside it, treated the deprav'd eye of him who lookt through little peepholes
in the sides, to scenes like those of the cards, but more real, /or that there dev-
ilish creator had a nice facilitie of giving to the scenes a sense of depth, so that
one had the feeling (pleasant to degenerates) of peering through a keyhole,
to witness gentlemen comporting themselves like stallions, and ladies like mares
inrutt, . .

Hawbeit, the damnable device must needs be held in a certain manner, so
that its lenses caught the sun at a proper angle. The Salvages, and Opecan*
canough in especially being quite unable to master this simple trick, it was
neces$arie they preserve the wretch my C°*t9 life, in order, presumablie, that he
migfit serve as operator of there MayfdT show for ever. So arows'd were they
over there treasures, that maugre what I took to be suggestions on my C**** part,
that only he was needed to perform the miracles of the compasse, the Salvages
took both of us along with them to Opecancanoughs town, w°h lay, we were
told, hard by that of the Emperour . . . entirelie forgetting, in there vicious
delight, to fill my stomacke with there arrowes . . .

[The twain are carried to the town of Opecancanough, and thence to
Powhatans town, and at length into the presence of the Emperour himself.]

[This prospect] appeafd to please my Cw* rrdghtilie, for he spoke of naught
besides, when indeed he deign'd converse tyith me at all, but how he had
schemd the most efficacious manner of winning the Emperours favour, as

[ l66 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

soone as ever he SM be presented to that worthie. I ... warn'd him, more, I
confess, toward the saving of my owne skinne, w** I cafd not to loose, then
the saving of his, that we were, for aught 1 cd see, still mere prisoners, and not
emissaries of the King, and that as such, I, for one, s*tf be content were I to leave
the forthcoming interview with my head yet affix'd to my shoulders, and my,
bellie free of arrowes, without troubling farther about Emperial favours or barter-
ing agreements. My C°P* made me his usual! witless insults for replie. . . .

On being led into the house of this Pawhatan, my feares multiply*d, for I
sweare he -was the evilkst-appearing wight I hope to incounter. He seem'd neare
sixtie; the browne fleshe of him was drfd and bewinkTd as is the skinne of an
apple left overlong in the sunne, and the loohe upon his face as sower, as w* be
such an apple to the tongue. 1 sawe in that face no favour , . . Hfe eyes, more
then any thing, held me, for despite a certaine hardnesse in them, like old flint,
what mark'd them most, so it seem'd to mer was an antick lecherie, such as one
remarketh in the eyes of profligates and other dissolute old persons. My O*, I
might $ay, hath the beginning of such eyes, and at sixtie, it pleaseth me to think,
will quite resemble this Powhatan.

The Emperours surroundings, moreover, did beare out my judgemmt; in addi-
tion to his bodie-guard, a goodlie number of Salvage wenches pottefd
about the roome, drest like Ladle Eve, only flaunting a bitt of animal-skinne aver
that part, w°h the Mother ofusatt was wont to disguise with a peece of foliage.
This one fetch'd her Lord a portion of tobacco; that one lem'd over him to light
his pipe with a brand; this one rubb'd his backe with the grease of bear*, or some
such mdodouTous decoction . . . and one & all he rewarded with a smart
tweake, or like pleasantrie, the w**, at hi* advanced age, *** righttie have been to
him no more than a fond memon'e. These the wenches forebore without
compleynt , . . m sooth they seemd to vye for the ancient satyrs attentions,
and performed there simple duties with aU po&ible voluptuoumesse, as if
therebye to rowse there King to acts more fitting a mm my age, then a dotard
his ... My C<** observed these maids with wondrous interest, md I sawe
in his eye more attention* then v* fay* been requir'd stmplie to transfer the
scene to hi$ trumpeting Historic. For my selfe, I was too occupy' d with the mere
holding of my 'water, w°* h&inm is chore enougjh in such a fearsome pass, to ewe
ivfort chanrw the heathenish slutt* offered there Emperotav or with what tewd
behaviour he replfd. , . .

... I must mention here, that Pcwhaten was mt*d on a sort of rw*d bed-
stead, and on the floor before him sat a retHi* striking Salvag* maid, of perhaps
sixteen yeare$, who from the richw&e of her costume and the deference pay'd
her by the other Salvages, I took to be the Queen*. Throughout the banquet
that fottcw'd our entrie into the house, this young ladie scarce took her eyed
from us, and though unlike my O*, J am a man not given to fading him selfe
a$ regard* Afe come/mm to the faire sex, I can only say, in woih, that what was
in her eye* exceeded that natural! curiositie, w°* one might «ftow on #nrt behd&
ing fair-$kinn*d men. Powhatan, I thinke, obwrfd this, far his fa* gm> ever
more sower as t fte mede progress* d> For this reason, I avoided the Queenes &&*

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 167]

assiduouslie, so as not farther to prejudice our state. My. C^, for his part . . .
return9 d her amourous glances with glances of his owne, of such unmistakeable
import, that had I been the Emperour I had struck him dead forthwith. My poore
heart tremblfd for the safetie of my head . . .

[A description followeth of the feast serv'd the two prisoners. It is a
Gargantuan affair, but the Author is unable to keep a morsel on his stomach.
Smith, on the contrary, gorgeth himself very like a swine in the slaughterhouse.]

My Cw* . . . took it on him selfe then to make a small speech, the gist of wch
(for I, too, comprehended somewhat of the heathen gibberish) was, that he had
brought with him a singular gifte for the Emperour, but that, unluckilie, it had
been removed from his person by the Emperours lieutenant (that same infamous
Opecancanough, who was the death of our companions earlier) . Powhatan forth-
with commanded Opecancanough thither, and bade him produce the gifte, if
he had it. Albeit he was loath to part with it, Opecancanough fish'd out the
wicked compass before describ'd, and gave it to his Chief, who thereupon caus'd
his lieutenant to be birch' d, for that he had intercepted it. This was, certain, a
grosse injustice, inasmuch as Opecancanough had had no knowledge that the
compasse was meant for Powhatan, as neither had my Cw*, what time to save
his skinne he had given the vile machine to Opecancanough. Notwithstanding
w°h, the Salvage was deliver1 d out the room, for birching, and I sawe no future
good therein for us. . . .

Next my Cw*, to my great astonishment, commenced to shew to Powhatan
the secrets of the compasse, directing its little lenses at the fyre to light the
shamefull scenes within. I was certdne our end was at hand, and ready' d my
selfe to dye as befitteth a Gentleman, for surelie no man, not even a Salvage,
who hath the qualities to raise him selfe to the post of Prince, even over a nation
of benighted heathen, cd but be disgusted by such spectacles, as now lay illu-
min'd to the Emperours eyes. For the thousandth time, I curs' d my C"** for a
black & arrant fooL

Yet here I reckoned without the degeneracie of the Salvage, whose bestiall
fancie ever delighteth in vilest things. So far from taking umbrage, Powhatan
had like to split his lecherous sides on beholding the little painting; he slapt his
knees, and slaver' d copiouslie over his wrinkfd lipps. A long time pass'd ere he
c* remove his eye from the foul peep-hole, and then only to peer therein againe,
and againe, each time hollowing with glee.

At length my O* made it knowne, the Queene, as well, SM receive a gifte,
At this pronouncement, I clos'd my. eyes and made my peace with God, for
knowing sufficient by this time of the nature of my C™tB giftes, and sensing
farther the jealousie of the Emperour, I expected momentlie to feel the toma-
hawke at my neck. The Queene, however, seemed greatlie pleas'd at the pros-
pect As I might have guess' d, my O>* had reserved for her the most impressive
gifte of die. He drew from his inexhaustible pocket a smalle booke of sorts, con-
structed of a number of little pages bound fast at there tops (this miracle too I
had seene at Jamestowne). On everie page a drawing 'was, of the sort one
w* be loath to shew ones wife, each drawing alter'd only by a little from his

[ l68 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

neighbour, and the -whole in a kind of sequence, so thai , $** one grasp the lewd
booke by the top, and bending it slightlie, attorn the pages to spring rapidlie
each after each before the eye, the result was, that the figures thereon assumed
the semblance of life, in that they mov'd to & fro about there sinfull business.
Alas! The Queene, it grew cleare, was depr&fd as was her consort. Over &
over againe, once having learnt the virtue of the small booke, she set the actors
therein to moving, each time laughing dlovtd at what she sawe . . .

[More food is serv'd, and a sort of Indian liquor, both of w*1* Smith takes
unto himself in quantity. The Author declines, for the same reasons as be-
fore. The Queene appoints herself to wait on Smith personally, laving his hands
and fetching bunches of wild-turkey feathers wherewith to dry them.]

The while this second feasting was in progrem, I confriVd to tcrewe up sufficient
courage to observe Powhatan, hoping to reade in his face prognostication of
what was to followe. What I sawe did not refresh my spirits . . . The Emperour
never tooke his gaze from the Quern*, who in turn, never remold here from my
C**\ with everie indecent promise in her eyes. She was on everie side of him at
once, fetching this & carrying that, all her movements exaggerated, and none
befitting any save a Drury Lane vesioH. My O*> whether through his charao
terist ick ignorance, or, what is more tikeUe, in pursuit of wme twisted design*
of his owne, reply* d to her coquetries in kind. None of this ttcap'd the Emp*r~
our, 'who, it seem'd to m«, iwis scare* abb to put away few gluttonous repast, jot
watching them. When then thi$ Powhatan wmmon'd to his couch three of hi*
evillest-appearing lieutenants, all coafd & oyFd & bedaub'd & brtasseTd
& bedizen*d> and commenced with them a long colloquy of heathen grunts &
whisperings, the purport whereof was tmtguivocijB, t once a&rin* commended
my soule to Cods mercie, for I looKd to m#*t him sftortiii fax to face. My O*
pay'd no heede, but wnt on blindli* with hi* tport.

My ... feares, it was Boon pmfd, were }u$tify*d< Th* Emptrour made a
signall, and the three great Sdvag** lay'd hold of my O', Despite his protest*
tiow, the w** were lowd enow, he was cany*d up to Powfortoi* couch, and there
forced to hi$ knees. The Salvages lay*d his hu*d upon a poire of gnat* afcm«*> put
there for the purpose, and catching up time ugli* ww^faifefej, had b*at* out what
mdte brdrm my C<#* migfit make claim to, were it not that at thi$ juncture, the
Qu&ew her setfe> to my astonishment, interceded. Running to the dtar, the
flung her wife bodUie upon my C***f and decbtfd to Powhatan, that rethxr W* she
loose her owne head, then that they $** dash in fe& Were I theEmperovrJowne
I $M have done the twain to d&zth, for that so cfaxre an alliance c* lead but to
adultme ere long. But Powhatan stey'd his fcuflw; the anemblie was dimist*
saving only the Emperour, his Queene, my O*, & my self* ( who aU 9eem*d to
have forgot, thank God) , and for the nonce, it ettx&^myhtartw* go on bett-
ing in my breast. , , .

[Th*re folhw'q a speech by the Empewur, w**, a best I grtap'd it, m* w*>
ww& as it vm improper. Some I grant ew&d me, for that Powhxtm spake
wth great rapiditi* and chetfd Ms word«$ witfcdL Bui the minim of wlwrf I

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 169 ]

gather'd -was, that the Queene was not his Queene at all, neither one amongst
his concubines (whereof he kept a goodlie number), but his daughter, her name
being Pocahontas. By this name is signify'd, in there tongue, the smalle one, or
she of the smallnesse and impenetrabilitie, and this, it seem'd, referr'd not to
the maidens stature, wch was in sooth but slight, nor to her mind, wch one c*
penetrate with passing ease. Rather it reflected, albeit grosslie, a singular physi-
cked short-coming in the childe9 to witt: her prMtie was that nice, and the
tympanum therein so surpassing stout, as to render it infrangible. This fact
greatlie disturb' d the Emperour, for that in his nation the barbarous custom was
practiced, that whensoever a maid be affianc'd, the Salvage, who wisheth to wed
her, must needs first fracture that same membrane, whereupon the suitor is
adjudg'd a man worthie of his betrothed, and the nuptialls followe. Now Powha-
tan, we were told, had on sundrie occasions chosen warriors of his people to wedd
this Pocahontas, but in everie instance the ceremonie had to be foregone, seeing
that labour as they might, none had been able to deflowr her, and in sooth the
most had done them selves hurt withal, in there efforts; whereas, the proper thing
was, to injure the young lasse, and that as grievouslie as possible, the degree of
injurie being reck'd a measure of the mans virilitie. Inasmuch as the Salvages are
wont to marrie off there daughters neare twelve yeares of age, it was deem'd a
disgraceful! thing, the Emperour shd have a daughter sbcteene, who was yet a
maide.

Continuing this discourse, [Powhatan] said, that whereas his daughter had
seen fitt, to save my Cwt8 life, what time it had been the Emperours pleasure to
dashe out his braines, then my. C0** must needs regard him selfe affianc'd to her,
and submit him selfe to that same labour (to witt, essaying the gate to Venus
grottoe) as her former suitors. But . . . with this difference, that where, having
faiVd, her Salvage beaux had merelie been disgrac'd, and taunted as olde women,
my C***, shd he prove no better, his head w* be lay'd againe upon the stones,
and the clubbing of his braines proceed without quarter or respite.

Att this Pocahontas heard with greate joye, maugre its nature, w071 wd have
mortify' d an English ladie; and my OP*, too, accepted readilie (in sooth he had
no option in the matter) . For my part, I was pleas' d to gaine reprieve once more
from the butchers block, albeit a briefe one, for I could not see, since that the
Salvages were of large stature, and my Ca** so slight of build, how that he s*4
triumph where they had fail'd, unlesse there were some wondrous disproportion,
in both cases, betwixt the size of what in each was visible, and what conceal' d,
to the casuall eye. My fate, it seem'd, hung on my C°**% and for that I bade
him Godspeed, preferring to heare for ever his endlesse boasting (w°n wd surelie
followe his successe), then to wettwith my braines the Salvage clubbs, woh fate
awaited me upon his failure. The carnall joust was set for sunup, in the publick
yard of sorts, that fronted the Emperours house, and the entire towne was
order' d to be present. This alone, I wot, w* have sufjjic'd to unstarch an ordinarie
man, my selfe included, who am wont to worshipp Venus (after my fashion)
in the privacie of darken9 d couches; but my C0** appeared not a whitt ruffl'd, and
in sooth seem'd eager to make his essaye publicklie. This, I take it, is apt meas-
ure of his swinishnesse, for that whenas a gentleman is forc'd, against his witt,

[ 170 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

to some abominable worke, he wiU dispatch it with as much expedition, and as
little noticer as he can, -whereas the rake & foole will noise the matter about,
drawing the eyes of the world to his follie & license, and is never more content,
then when he hath an audience to his mischief. . . .

[Here endeth the existing portion of the journal]

" 'Dslife, what a place to end itf " Ebenezer cried when he had finished
the manuscript, and hurried to find Burlingame. "Was there no more,
Henry?"

"Not another word, I swear't, for 1 combed the town to find the rest."

"But marry, one must know how matters went— whether this hateful
Smith made good his boasts, or thy poor ancestor lost his life."

"Ah well/1 Burlingame replied, "this modi we know, that both escaped,
for Smith went on that same year to explore the Chesapeake, and Burling-
game at least set down this narrative. What's more, if I be not a bastard
he must needs have got himself a wife in later years, for none is mentioned
here. I'God, Eben, I cannot tell you how I yearn to know the rest!"

"And I," laughed Ebenezer, "for though belike she was no poet, this
Pocahontas was twice the virgin I am!"

To Ebenezefs surprise, Buriingame blushed deeply, That is not what
I meant"

"I know full well you didn't; 'tis your ancestry concerns you, Yet 'tis
no vulgar curiosity, this other: the fall of viigins always is instructive, nor
doth the world e'er weary of the tale. And the harder the fell, the better."

"Indeed?'' Burlingame smiled, regaining his composure. **A»d prithee
tell me, What lesson doth it teach?"

"'Tis odd that I should be the teacher and you the pupil," Ebenezer
said, "yet I will own 'tis a subject dose to my heart, and one to which
I've given no small attention. My conclusion is, that mankind sees two
morals in such tales: the fall of innocence, or the fall of pride. The first
sort hath its archetype in Adam; the second in Satan. The first alone hath
not the sting of tragedy, as hath the second: the virgin pure and simple,
like Pocahontas, is neither good nor vicious for her hymen; she is only
envied, as is Adam, by the fallen. They secretly rejoice to sec her ravaged,
as poor men smile to see a rich man robbed-e'en the virtuous fallen can
feel for her no more than abstract pity. The second is the very stuff of
drama, for the proud man oft excites our admiration; we live, as*t were,
by proxy in his triumphs, and are cleansed and taught by pnwy in his fall.
When we heap obloquy on Satan, is't not ouiadves we scold, for that we
secretly admire his Heavenly insurrection?**

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ lyi ]

"That all seems sound," said Burlingame. "It follows, doth it not, that
when you profess abhorrence for the Captain, thou'rt but chastising your-
self in like manner, or that part of you that wisheth him success?"

" Tis unequivocally the case," Ebenezer agreed, "whene'er the critic's
of the number of the fallen. For myself, 'twere as if a maid should cheer
her ravisher, or my Lord Baltimore support John Coode."

"I think that neither is impossible, but let it go. I will say now, friend
Poet, thine own fall, when it comes, must needs be glorious, inasmuch as
thou'rt both innocent and proud."

"Wherein lies my pride?" asked Ebenezer,, clearly disconcerted by his
friend's observation.

"In thy very innocence, which you raise above mere circumstance and
make a special virtue. Tis a Christian reverence you bear it, I swear!"

"Christian in a sense/' Ebenezer replied, "albeit your Christians— St.
Paul excepted— pay scant reverence to chastity in men. Tis valued as a
sign— nay, a double sign, for't harketh back alike to Eve and Mary. Therein
lies its difference from the cardinal virtues, which refer to naught beyond
themselves: adultery's a mortal sin, proscribed by God's commandment
—not so fornication, I believe."

"Then virginity's a secondary virtue, is't not, and less to be admired than
faithfulness? I think not even More would gainsay that."

"But recall," Ebenezer insisted, "I said 'twas only in a sense I share the
Christians' feeling. Methinks that mankind's virtues are of two main
sorts "

"Aye, that we learn in school," said Burlingame, who seemed prepared
to end the colloquy. "Instrumental if they lead us to some end, and
terminal if we love them in themselves. Tis schoolmen's cant"

"Nay," said Ebenezer, "that is not what I meant; those terms bear little
meaning to the Christian, I believe, who on the one hand hopes by all
his virtues to reach Heaven, and yet will swear that virtue is its own reward.
What I meant was, that sundry virtues are— I might say plain, for want
of proper language,, and some significant. Among the first are honesty in
speech and deed, fidelity, respect for mother and father, charity, and the
like; the second head's comprised of things like eating fish on Friday, resting
on the Sabbath, and coming virgin to the grave or marriage bed, whiche'er
the case may be; they all mean naught when taken by themselves, like the
strokes and scribbles we call writing— their virtue lies in what they stand
for. Now the first, whether so designed or not, are matters of public policy,
and thus apply to prudent men, be they heathens or believers. The second

[ 1J2 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

have small relevance to prudence, being but signs, and differ from faith to
faith. The first are social, the second religious; the first are guides for life,
the second forms of ceremony; the first practical, the second mysterious
or poetic "

"I grasp the principle," Burlingame said.

"Well then/' Ebenezer declared, "it follows that this second sort are
purer, after a fashion, and in this way not inferior at all, but the reverse."

"La, you have the heart of a Scholastic," Burlingame said disgustedly.
"I see no purity in 'em, save that all the sense is filtered out— the residue
is nonsense/'

"As you wish, Henry— I do not mean to argue Christianity but only my
virginity, which if senseless is to me not therefore nonsense, but essence.
Tis but a sign as with the Christians, that I grant, yet it pointeth not to
Eden or to Bethlehem, but to my soul ! prize it not as a virtue, but as
the very emblem of my self, and when I call me virgin and poet 'tis not
more boast than who should say I'm male and English. Prithee chide me
no more on't, and let us end this discourse that pleaseth you so little/*

"Nonetheless/' Burlingame declared, " 'twill be a fall worth watching
when you stumble/'

"I do not mean to fall/'

Burlingame shrugged. "What climber doth? Tis but the more likely in
your case, for that you travel as't were asleep— thy friend McEvoy was no
dullard there, albeit a callous fellow. Yet haply the fell will open your eyes/'

"I would have thought thee more my friend, Henry, but on this head
thou'rt brusque as erst in London, when I went with Anna to St. Giles.
Have you forgot that day in Cambridge, the pass wherein you found me?
Or that malady whereof I spoke but yesterday, that 1 was wont to suffer
in the winehouse? Think you I'd not rejoice," he went on, growing more
aroused, "to be in sooth a climber, that stumbling would move men to
fear and pity? I do not dimb, but merely walk a road, and stumbling
ne'er shall fall a mighty fall, but only cease to walk, or drift a wayless ship
on every current, or haply just moss over like a stone. I see nor spectacle
new instruction in such a fall"

Buriingame made no more of the matter and apologized to Ebenezer
for bis curtness. Nonetheless he remained out of sorts, as did the poet,
for some hours afterwards, and in fact it was not until a short time before
they arrived in Plymouth that they entirely regained their spirits, and
Burlingame, at Ebenezer's request, took up again the tale of his adventures,
wBch he'd left at his discovery of the fragmentary joqmal*

7: BURLINGAME'S TALE CONCLUDED, AND THE
TRAVELERS ARRIVE AT PLYMOUTH

"THAT PORTION OF THE PRIVIE JOURNALL THAT YOU READ/' SAID
Burlingame, "so far from cooling the ardor of my quest, did but enflame it
the more, as you might imagine, inasmuch as it said There was a Henry
Burlingame, yet told me neither that he e'er had progeny, nor that among
his children was my father. There was one ground for hope and speculation:
namely, that Captain John Smith set out that very summer to explore the
Chesapeake, wherein near half a century later I was found floating. Yet no-
where in his Historie doth he mention Burlingame, nor is that poor wight
listed with the party. I searched the ancient papers of the colony arid
asked the length and breadth of Jamestown, but no word more could I
find on the matter. I made bold to enquire of Nicholson himself whether
he knew aught of other records in the Dominion. And he replied he had
been there so short time he scarce knew where the privy was, but added,
there was a grievous dearth of paper in the provinces, and 'twas no uncom-
mon thing for officers of the government to ransack older record? for paper
writ on but the recto, to the end they might employ the verso for themselves.
He himself deplored this practice, for he is a man devoted to the cause of
learning, but he said there was no cure for't till the provinces erected their
own paper mills.

"It seemed to me quite likely my Journatt had suffered this fate, inasmuch
as 'twas writ on a good grade of English paper, and the author had employed
the recto only, I despaired of e'er discovering the rest, and in the fall of 1690
went with Captain Hill to London. Our intention was to litigate to clear
the charges of seditious speech against him, and if possible to undo Colonel
Coode and his companions. The moment was propitious, for Coode
himself and Kenelm Cheseldyne, his speaker, had also sailed for London
and would not have their bullies to defend 'em. I so arranged matters that
a number of his enemies appeared in England that same season, and I
thought that if we filed a host of depositions against him, we could thereby
either work his ruin or at least detain him whilst we plotted farther. To
this end I made a secret trip to Maryland ere we sailed, with the design of
slipping privily into St. Mary's City and stealing the criminal records of

[ 174 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Coode's courts, or bribing them stolen, for no clearer proof could be of his
corruption. Howbeit, the man anticipated my plan, as oft he doth: I
learned that he and Cheseldyne had carried off the records with fem.

"In any case we set our plot in motion. No sooner did we dock at London
in November than the Lords Commissioners of Trade and Plantations sub-
poenaed Coode to confront Lord Baltimore before them, to answer that
worthy's charges against him. At the same time Colonel Henry Coursey, of
Kent County, petitioned against Coode and Cheseldyne, as did John
Lillingstone, the rector of St Paul's Parish in Talbot County, and ten
other souls, all known Protestants— for 'twas Coode's chief defense for his
rebellion that he was putting down the barbarous Papists, as he sworn him-
self in writing at the time. Finally Hill made his own petition, and even our
friend Captain Burford of the Abraham & Fnmeig, who had helped us flee
to Nicholson and whose ship the rogues had lately crossed on, deposed in
Plymouth that Coode had in his presence damned Lord Baltimore and
vowed to spend the revenues embezzled from the Piovince,

"For a time it seemed we had him dead to rights, but he is a damned
resourceful devil and had a perfect shield for our assaults. The year before,
just prior to the rebellion, a wight named John Payne, who collected His
Majesty's customs on the Patuxent River, had been shot to death either
aboard or near a pleasure-sloop belonging to Major Nicholas Sewall, and
Coode had rigged a charge of willful murther against Sewall and four ethos
on the sloop. Nick Sewall was Deputy Governor of Maryland before the
rebellion, but more than that he is Charles Calverf s nephew, the son of
Lady Baltimore herself. The rebels had him hostage in St, Maiy's, and at
any time could turn him over to the court of Neamiah Blackistone, Coodc's
crony, who would hang him certain. Thus our hands woe tied and our
plot squelched, the more for that we had not the criminal recoitls for evi-
dence. The Lords Commissioners cleared Captain Hill in December, and
Colonel Heniy Damall too, Lord Baltimore's agent, who'd been charged
with treasonable speech and inciting the Choptico Indians to slaughter
Protestants on the Eastern Shore; but Coode they could not touch, or haply
would not, at Lord Baltimore's behest, The confrontation came to naught,
and Coode made meny with the whores of London, on money swindled
from the King himself*

"I saw no farther usefulness for myself with Captain Hfll; he was free to
go back to the Severn, and had no moie taste for politics. But my inteiest in
John Coode had near replaced my forme* quest, which seemed a cuWwac;
the man intrigued me with his cunning and his boldness, his shifting roles

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 175 \]

as minister and priest, and most of all his motives: he seemed to have no
wish for office, and held no post save in the St. Mary's County militia; he
plundered more for sport than avarice, and would risk all to make a clever
move. The fellow loved intrigue itself, I swear, and would unseat a governor
for amusement! At length I vowed to match my wits with his, and to that
end offered my services to Lord Baltimore as a sort of agent-at-large in the
Maryland business. The Lords Commissioners of Trade and Plantations
were kindly disposed towards Baltimore at this time, for they knew full well
John Coode was a rascal and King William had no more right than you or I
to seize the Province; yet they could do naught to stop 'em. Therefore
when time had come to name a royal governor, they gave milord some say
in his selection, and he picked the great dunderhead Sir Lionel Copley,
who could not tell a knave from a saint. Now I had caught a rumor that
Coode was privy to the Governor's ear, and for simple spite had told him
that Francis Nicholson of Virginia was being groomed to take his place,
ere Copley had e'en left London. He said this, I was certain, merely to cause
friction 'twixt the governors, for he had no love for Nicholson and wanted
a weak executive in Maryland who would leave his own hands free. This
strategy of his gave me my own, which was to suggest to Baltimore that he
should in fact have Nicholson commissioned lieutenant governor of
Maryland, since word had it he was to be replaced in Jamestown by none
other than Sir Edmund Andros himself; and farther, that he should then
name Andros commander-in-chief of the Province, with power to take com-
mand in the event of Nicholson's death and Copley's absence. Twas a
fantastical arrangement, inasmuch as Copley mistrusted Nicholson, Nich-
olson disliked Andros (who had erst been his superior in New England),
and Coode loathed 'em all! My object was, to so mismatch them that their
rule would be a farce, to the end that haply someday William might return
the reins of government to Baltimore.

"Milord approved the plan, once I had explained it, and, seeing farther I
had the confidence both of Andros and of Nicholson, he gave me the post
I wished, with one stipulation only, that it be confidential. Nicholson and
Andros were commissioned by March of 1692, and the instant Coode heard
it he took fright: he well knew Copley was too thick to see the evidence of
his mischief and too weak to harm him if he saw't, and Andros would have
work enough in Virginia to absorb him; but Nicholson's neither dull nor
weak and knew Coode already for a rascal. Posthaste he wrote instructions
to an agent in St. Mary's, to steal the Journal of the 1691 Assembly and
destroy it, for there was writ the full tale of his government for all to see. I

[ Ij6 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

heard from friends one Benjamin Ricaud had joined the fleet, and knowing
him as Coode's messenger, straightway set out after. Twas my good luck he
boarded the ship Bailey> for her master, Peregrine Browne of Cecil County,
was a friend of Hill's and Baltimore's, and I knew him well. Moreover, a
number of our men were there as well; Colonel Coursey, John Lillingstone
the minister, and others. Between us we contrived to search Ricaud's effects
and intercept the letter, which I passed along to Baltimore.

"I resolved at once to sail for Maryland and prevailed on Baltimore to
let me go on the very ship with Copley. We had one powerful ally in the
government, Sir Thomas Lawrence, who as His Majesty's Secretary to the
Province had access to every stamp and paper. Twas my design to have
him steal the Assembly Journal ere it was destroyed and smuggle it to
Nicholson, who would in turn then fetch it here to London for our use. I
was the more eager to lay hands on*t, for that in that document my separate
goals seemed fused: the search for my father and the search for ways to put
down Coode were now the selfsame search!"

"How is that?" asked Ebenezer, who had heard the foregoing in wordless
amazement. "I do not grasp your meaning in the least/*

" Twas that note we intercepted," Burlingame replied. "We did not
know its import at first sight, for't said no mow than Afcington: Such smutt
as Cttpt John Smiths book were best fed to the fire. 'Abington* we knew
was Andrew Abington, a fellow in St. Mary's that Coodc had given the
post of Collector for the Patuxent after John Payne's murther; but we
could not comprehend the rest. At length I bribed Racaud outright, who
was a shifty fellow, and he told us 'John Smiths Book' signified the Journal
of the 1691 Assembly, for that 'twas writ on the back of an old manuscript
of some sort. For aught I knew it might be but a draft of the Hfetorif I'd
read in print, but nonetheless I could scarce contain my joy at hearing of it
and prayed it might make mention of my namesake. Nor was this the end
of my good fortune, for the note itself was writ on aged paper, not unlike
that of the Privie JourncOl in Jamestown, and I learned from Ricaud that
Coode had traveled often in Virginia and had kin that, and that after the
rebellion he'd given Cheseldyne and Blackistone a batch of old papeis
filched from Jamestown to use in the Assembly and the St Mary's court.
For aught I knew, the rest of the Prim Joumtll might be filed somewhere
in Maryland!

"As soon as I arrived in St. Mary's City I made myself known to Sir
Thomas Lawrence and laid open Lord Baltimore's strategy. He was to steal
the Assembly Journal and pass it on to Nicholson, who wodd find accuse

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 177 ]

at once to visit London. In addition I meant to discredit as many as possible
of Coode's associates, and to that end persuaded Lawrence to lure them
into corruption. Colonel Henry Jowles, for instance,, was a member of the
Governor's Council and a colonel of milita: we made it easy for him to
line his pockets with illegal fees as clerk of Calvert County. Baltimore's
friend Charles Carroll, a Papist lawyer in St. Mary's, did the same with
Neamiah Blackistone, Coode's own brother-in-law, that was president of
the Council and Copley's right-hand man. And the grandest gadfly of 'em
all was Edward Randolph, His Majesty's Royal Surveyor, who loved to bait
and slander popr old Copley, and spoke openly in favor of King James.
Finally we terrified the lot of 'em with stories that the French and the
Naked Indians of Canada were making ready for a general slaughter. In
June, not a month after we landed, Copley was already complaining of
Randolph to the Lords Commissioners of Trade and Plantations; in July
Lawrence filched the Journal, but Nicholson whisked it off to London ere
I could lay eyes upon it. In October we exposed Colonel Jowles, who was
turned out as colonel, councilman, and clerk. In December Copley again
complained of Randolph, and swore to the Lords Commissioners, along
with Blackistone, that Nicholson was on some sinister errand in London —
which letter greatly pleased us, for we meant to use it to advantage when
Nicholson himself was governor.

"Thus we harassed old Copley, who scarce knew what was happening
till the following February, when the Lords Commissioners charged
Blackistone with graft. Then, too late, he saw our plot, and in the spring
of last year arrested Carroll, Sir Thomas himself, Edward Randolph, and a
host of others, among whom was Peter Sayer of Talbot, the man I was
disguised as in Ben Bragg's bookshop. Sir Thomas was jailed, as was Carroll,
and impeached into the bargain; Randolph was arrested on the Eastern
Shore of Virginia by the Somerset County sheriff, but ere he could get him
out of Accomac I sent word oft to Edmund Andros in Williamsburg, who'd
been a drinking-friend of Randolph's since the old days in Boston, and
Andros fetched him home for safety."

"E'en so, thy cause was damaged, was it not?" asked Ebenezer.

"My cause?" Burlingame smiled. " 'Tis thine as well, is't not, since we
work for the same employer? Let us say instead our cause was discommoded
for a time; we knew well old Copley couldn't hold such men for long, but
we wanted them out of prison, not alone for their own comfort but for fear
John Coode might turn up in their absence and gain ground with Copley.
As't happened our fears were empty, for both the Governor and his wife

[ 178 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

died in September— methinks they ne'er acclimatized to Maryland, His

death suggested to me a wondrous mischief "

"Great heavens, Henry, thou'rt a plotting Coode thyself!"
"You recall I said Lord Baltimore had made Andros commander-in-chief
of the Province, merely to play on the jealousy 'twixt him and Nicholson,
and his commission gave him full authority in the event of Nicholson's
death and Copley's absence. It struck me now that albeit 'twas Copley
dead and Nicholson absent, I could work a grand confusion anyhow, and
so I went posthaste to Williamsburg to take the news to Andros and
persuade him his commission was in force. He was inclined to doubt it,
but he knew me for an agent of Lord Baltimore, and loved to exercise his
power besides. What's more, though he made no mention oft, he was not
averse to stealing Nicholson's thunder, as't were, by rescuing law and order
in Maryland, for he himself had felt the pricks of following Nicholson in
Virginia. To be brief, he marched into St. Mary's City, demanded the
government of Maryland, dissolved the Assembly, suspended Rlackistone,
turned Lawrence loose, and took him with his party back to Williamsburg,
leaving the Province in the charge of an amiable nobody named Green-
berry, Twas his design to return again this spring, when the business was
cooled, and make Lawrence president of the Council, but whether he hath
done it I've yet to learn,

"I could see no immediate employment for myself in Hie Province after
this, and so I crossed come January here to London, both to wait farther
orders from Lord Baltimore and to search out the Assembly Journal I ar-
rived not two weeks past, and learned to my dismay that neither Nicholson
nor Baltimore hath the Journal in his possession for fear of Coode's agents,
who would stop at naught to get it Instead, Lord Baltimore declares, he
hath broken it into three portions for safekeeping and deposited the several
portions privily in Maryland, whence I had just cornel I begged of him the
trustees' names, that I might pursue my innocent search, but he was loath
to discover them~not Nicholson himself, it seems, knew more than I on
the matter. But a few days past he said he had a mission for me of such
importance he could trust it to no other soul; and I replied, surely I was
not worthy of such trust, if he dared not name me the keepers of the
Journal Whereat he smiled and said I had him fair, inasmuch as the gravity
of my new errand outweighed his great reluctance. The pieces of the
Journal, he said, were in the hands of sundry loyal persons of the surname
Smith, for reasons I'd no need to ask, and he told me their names in
greatest confidence. I thanked him and declared I was ready for whatever

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ *79 1

work he gave me, and he said a young man had called on him that after-
noon that was a poet,, and he had charged him to write a work in praise of
Maryland and the proprietorship—the which, he believed, if nobly done,
might profit more than ten intrigues to win him back the Province."

"'Sheart, what a marvelous small world!" Ebenezer cried. "And how
pleased I am to find he sets such store by poetry! But prithee what work
was't in this connection, that warranted such concession on his part?"

"He enquired of me, whether I knew the poet Ebenezer Cooke? My
heart leaped, for Fd had no word of you or Anna these seven years, but I
answered merely I had heard mention of a poet by that name but knew
naught of the man or his work. More than this I thought it imprudent to
say, ere I'd heard the nature of my errand. Then he told me of your visit
and proposal, and his commission, and said I should accompany you to
Maryland— for that you'd ne'er before been out of England— and act both
as your guide and your protector. I leave it to you to imagine with what
readiness I took on the task, and straightway sought you out!"

Now the earlier portions of this long narrative had elicited from
Ebenezer such a number of ah's, marry? s, 'sheart's, and b'm'faith's that he
had come during this last to sit for the most part wordlessly, mouth agape
and brows a-pucker in a sort of permanent fGod! as one amazement
tripped on another's heels. At the end he was moved enough to embrace
Burlingame unashamedly— and had, he found, to add bad breath to the
host of alterations worked on his friend by this seven-year adventure: it was
no doubt a product of the teeth gone carious. The trifle brought tears to his
eyes— not its pungency, but its poignancy— signifying as it did their lengthy
separation.

"Ah God," he cried, when he found his voice, "if Anna but knew all
you've told me! Wherefore this role as Peter Sayer, Henry? Why did you
not at least reveal yourself in London ere we left, that she might share my
joy at finding you?"

Burlingame sighed, and after a moment replied, "I am wont to go by
names other than my own, either borrowed or invented, for sundry reasons
stemming from my work. 'Twould do no good for Coode to know my
name, nor e'en that I exist. What's more, I can confound him and his
agents: I posed as Sayer in Bragg' s, for instance, and forged his name, merely
because Coode thinks the man's in Plymouth with the fleet. In like manner
I've pretended to be both friends and enemies of Baltimore, to advance his
cause. Once, I shall confess, that time on Perry Browne's ship Bailey, I
posed as Coode himself to the poor dolt Ben Ricaud, to intercept those

[ l8o ] ' THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

letters; Ricaud was a London friend of Cheseldyne's and had ne'er seen
Coode before, for all he'd heard of him. The truth is, Eben, no man save
Richard Hill, Lord Baltimore,, and yourself hath known my name since
1687, when first I commenced to play the game of governments; and the
game itself hath made such changes in me, that none who knew me erst
would know me now, nor do I mean them to. Tis better they think me
lost."

"Yet surely Anna "

" 'Tis but thy first enquiry I've replied to/* Burlingame interrupted, rais-
ing his forefinger. "For the second, do not forget that many are bound
from London for the fleet— Coode's men as well as ours, and haply Coode
himself— whether to place themselves under Nicholson's protection or
work some mischief against him. Twould have been foolish, even perilous,
to shed my mask in that place. Moreover, there was no time: I scarce caught
up with you ere you left, and mark how long I've beea discovering myself
to you. The fleet had sailed without us/*

"Aye, that's true," Ebenezer admitted.

"What's more"— Burlingame laughed— 4Td not yet made my own mind
up, whether 'twere wise e'en you should know the truth.0

"What! Think you I'd e'er betray thy trust? And could you thus callously
deprive me of my only friend? You injure me!"

"As to the first, 'twas just to answer it I posed as Saycr and queried you—
the years change any man. Ben Bragg had said fchou'rt but an opportunist;
nor was your servant more persuaded of your motive, for all he admired
you. Again, how could I know your sentiments towards Burlingame? The
tale you told to Peter Sayer was your bond; when I had heard it, I revealed
myself at once, but had you sung a different tune, 'tis Peter Sayer had been
your guide, not Burlingame/'

"Enough. I am convinced and cannot tell my joy. Yet your relation
shames me for my tearfulness and sloth, as doth your wisdom my poor
talent. Thou'rt a Virgil worth a better Dante,"

"Oh la," Burlingame scoffed, "you've wit enough, and ear, Besides, the
Province is no Hell or Purgatorio, but just a piece o* the great world like
England— with the difference, haply, that the soil is vast and new where the
sot-weed hath not drained it and oft will sprout wild seeds of energy in men
that had lain fallow here. What's more, the reins and checks are few and
weak; good plants and weeds alike grow tall Do but recall, if the people
there seem strange and rough: a man content with Europe scarce would
cross the ocean. The plain fact is, the greatest part are castaways from

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ l8l ]

Europe, or the sons of castaways: rebels, failures, jailbirds and adventurers.
Cast such seed on such soil, and 'twere fond to seek a crop of dons and
courtiers!"

"Yet you speak as one who loves the place/' said Ebenezer, "and that
alone, for me, is warrant I shall too."

Burlingame shrugged— another habit apparently picked up in his travels.
"Haply so, haply no. There is a freedom there that's both a blessing and a
curse, for't means both liberty and lawlessness. Tis more than just political
and religious liberty— they come and go from one year to the next. Tis
philosophic liberty I speak of, that comes from want of history. It throws
one on his own resources, that freedom— makes every man an orphan like
myself and can as well demoralize as elevate. But no more: I see the masts
and spires of Plymouth yonder. You'll know the Province soon enough and
how it strikes you!"

Even as Burlingame spoke the smell of the sea blew into the carriage,
stirring Ebenezer to the depths of his being, and when a short while later
he saw it for the first time, spread out before him to the far horizon, he
shivered twice or thrice all over and came near to passing water in his
breeches.

8: THE LAUREATE INDITES A QUATRAIN AND FOULS
HIS BREECHES

"REMEMBER," BURLINGAME SAID AS THE CARRIAGE ROLLED INTO PLYM-
outh, "I am not Henry Burlingame, nor Peter Sayer either, for the real
Sayer's somewhere on the fleet. You'd best not give me any name at all, I
think, till I see how lays the land."

Accordingly, as soon as their chests and trunks were put down they
inquired after the Poseidon at the wharves and were told it had already
joined the fleet.

"What!" cried Ebenezer. "Then we have missed it after alll"

"Nay," Burlingame smiled, " 'tis not unusual. The fleet assembles yonder
in the Downs off The Lizard; you can see't from here on a clear day."

Inquiring further he found a shallop doing ferry-service between the
Downs and the harbor, and arranged for passage aboard it in the afternoon.

"We'd as well take one last meal ashore," he explained to Ebenezer.

[ 182 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Moreover I must change clothing, for I've resolved to pose as your servant
What was his name?'7

"Bertrand," Ebenezer murmured. "But must you be a servant?"

"Aye, or else invent an entire gentleman as your companion* As Bertrand
I can pass unnoticed in your company and hear more news as well of your
fellow travelers."

So saying he led the way across the street from the wharves to a tavern
advertising itself by two capital letter Cs> face to face and interlocking, the
figure surmounted by a three-lobed crown*

"Here's the King o' the Seas/' said Burlingame "Tis a jolly place, by
Heav'n. I know it of old/' They stepped inside the door and surveyed the
room. Burlingame sighed. " 'Twas here I got my first wee clap, while still a
hand on Captain Salmon's ship. A bony Welsh tart gave it me, that had
made the best of my inexperience to charge me a clean girl's price, and by
the time the fraud came clear I was many a day's sail from Plymouth,
bound for Lisbon. The clap soon left me, but I ne'er forgot the wench*
When in Lisbon I found a vessel bound for Plymouth and made enquiries
amongst the crew, till at length I hit upon a one-eyed Portugee that was like
to perish of a miserable clap from Africa, beside which our English sort was
but a fleabite. This frightful wight I gave my fine new quadrant to, that
Captain Salmon had bought me to practice navigation with, on condi-
tion he share his clap with the Welsh whore at the King o* the Seas directly
he made port. But no man e'er died of the food here,"

It being midmorning, the tavern was deserted except for a young saving
maid scrubbing the flagstone floor. She was short and plump, coarse-haired
and befreckled, but her eyes had a merry light and her nose a pertness,
Leaving Ebenezer to select a table, Burlingame approached her familiarly
and engaged her in conversation which, though spoken in voices too low
for Ebenezer to hear distinctly, soon had her laughing and wagging a finger
in feigned admonition,

"The duckling swore she'd naught but fish in the larder/* he said when
presently he returned, "but when I told her 'twas a lauitsate she was feeding,
that could lay the place low with Hudibrastics, she agreed to stay year pen
with roast of beef. Twill be heie anon."

"You twit me," Ebenezer said modestly.

Burlingame shmgged. "Methinks Til change costume the while ifs
fixing. I must ask yonder cherub the way to the privy,"

"But our baggage is on the wharf,"

"No matter. Scotch cloth to silk is oft a life-time's journey, but sflk to

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 183 ]

Scotch cloth can be traversed in a minute." He went again to the serving
maid, who smiled at his approach, and spoke §oftly to her, at the same
time pinching her smartly. She squealed in mock protest and, one hand
on her hip, pointed laughing to a door beside the fireplace. Burlingame
then took her arm as though to lead her along with him; when she drew
back he whispered seriously in her ear and whispered again when she gasped
and shook her head. She glanced towards Ebenezer, who blushed at once
and feigned preoccupation with the set of his cravat; Burlingame whispered
a third message that turned her bright eyes coyly, and left the room through
the indicated door. The girl lingered for two minutes in the room. Then
she took another sharp look at Ebenezer, sniffed, and flounced through
the same door.

Though he was not a little embarrassed by the small drama, the poet was
pleased enough to be alone for a short while, not only to ponder the
wondrous adventures of his friend, which had been two days in the telling
(and the vast reaches of terra incognita he had glimpsed in the character
of the man he thought he'd known entire), but also to take stock of his
own position; to reflect a final time on the grand adventure into which
he'd flung himself and the marvelous step he was about to take.

"I have been so occupied gaping and gasping at Henry," said he to him-
self, "I have near forgot who I am, and what business I'm embarked upon.
Not a line have I writ since London, nor thought at all of logging my
journey/'

He forthwith spread before him on the table his ever-present double-
entry ledger, open to that page whereon was transcribed the first quatrain
of his official career, and fetching quill and ink from a stand on the wall
next the serving-bar, considered what should grace the facing-page.

"I can say naught whate'er of my journey hither, in the Marylandiad"
he reflected, "for I saw but little oft. Moreover, *twere fitter I commenced
the poem from Plymouth,, where most who sail to Maryland take their
leave of Albion's rocks; 'twill pitch the teader straightway on his voyage/'
Pursuing farther this line of thought, he resolved to write his epn
Marylandiad in the form of an imaginary voyage, thinking thereby to dis
cover to the reader the delights of the Province with the same freshnes'
and surprise wherewith they would discover themselves to the voyager-poet.
It was with pleasure and a kind of awe, therefore, that he recalled the name
of his ship.

"Poseidonl" he thought, "It bodes well, f faith! A very Virgil for com-

[ 184 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

panion, and the Earth-Shaker himself for fenymaster to this Elysium! What
ill can befall who sails in such company?'*

And turning the happy figure some minutes in his mind, at length he
wrote:

Let Ocean roar his damn'dest Gate:

Our Planks shan't leak; our Masts shan't fo&

With great Poseidon at our Side

He seemeth neither wild nor wide.

At the foot he appended E.G., G**\ P* & L? of M*, and beamed with
satisfaction.

"Naught succeedeth like success" he declared to himself,
While he was thus engaged, two men came into the tavern and noisily
closed the door. They were sailors, by the look of them— but not ordinary
seamen— and like enough for twins in manner and appearance: both were
short and heavy, red-nosed, squint-eyed, and black-whiskered, and wore their
natural hair; both were dressed in black breeches and coats, and sported
twin-peaked hats of the same color. Each wore a brace of pistols at his right,
stuck down through his sash, and a cutlass at his left, and carried besides a
heavy black cane,

"Thou'rt my guest for beer, Captain Scuny," growled one
"Nay, Captain Slye," growled the other, "for thou' it mine;*
With that, still standing, they both commenced to bang their sticks upon
a table for service. "Beerl" one cried, and "Beer!" cried the other, and they
glowered, scowled, and grumbled when their cries brought no response.
So fearsome was their aspect, and fierce their manner, Ebenezer decided
they were pirate captains, but he had not the courage to 8ce the room.
"Beer/" they called again, and again smote the table with their sticks to
no avail Ebenezer buried himself in his notebook, spread out before him
on the table, and prayed they'd take no notice of his presence. He knew
well, from the History of the Buccaneer*, that pirates were moved to
violence by the merest trifles; the simple fact of one's presence or the cut
of one's wig, if their mood was delicate, could provoke them to murder. He
damned the serving girl for her absence.

" Tis my suspicion, Captain Slye," one of them said, "that we must serve
ourselves or seek our man with dry throats."

"Then let us draw our beer and have done with't, Captain Scurry," re-
plied the other. 'The rascal can't be far away, 1 shall d»w two steins, and
haply he'll come in ere we've drunk 'em off,"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 185 ]

"Haply, haply/' the first allowed. "But 'tis I shall draw the steins, for
thou'rt my guest."

"The devil on7t!" cried the second. " 'Twas I spake first, and thou'rt my
guest, God damn ye!"

"I'll see thee first in Hell," said Number One. "The treat is mine."

"Mine!" said Number Two, more threateningly.

"Thine in a pig's arse!"

"I shall draw thy beer, Captain Slye," said Number Two, fetching out a
pistol, "or draw thy blood."

"And I thine," said Number One, doing likewise, "else thou'rt a banquet
for the worms."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Ebenezer cried. "In Heav'n's name hold thy
fire!"

Instantly he regretted his words. The two men turned to glare at him,
still pointing pistols at each other, and their expressions grew so menacing
that Ebenezer trembled.

" Tis none of my affair," he said hastily, for they began moving toward
him. "Not the least of my affair, I grant that. What I meant to say was,
'twould be an honor and a pleasure to me to buy for both of you, and draw
as well, if you'll but show me how. Nay, no matter, I'll wager I can do't
right off, with no instruction,, for many's the time in Locket's I've seen it
done. Aye," he went on, backing away from them, "there's naught of skill
or secret to't but this, to edge the glass against the tap if the keg be wild and
let the beer slide gently in; or be't flat, allow the stream some space to fall
ere't fill the glass, that striking harder 'twill foam the more "

"Cease!" commanded Number One, and fetched the table such a clap
of the cane that Ebenezer's notebook jumped. "I'God, Captain Slye, did
e'er ye hear such claptrap?"

"Nor such impertinence, Captain Scurry/' answered the other, "that not
content to meddle in our business, the knave would have't all his own."

"Nay, gentlemen, you mistake me!" Ebenezer cried.

"Prithee close thy mouth and sit," said Captain Scurry, pointing with his
stick to the poet's chair. Then to his companion he declared, "Ye must
excuse me while I put a ball 'twixt this ninny's eyes."

"Twill be my pleasure," the other replied, "and then we'll drisk in
peace." Both pistols now were aimed at Ebenezer.

"No guest of mine shall stoop to such mean trifles," said the first. Ebene-
zer, standing behind his chair, looked again to the door through which
Burlingaine and the serving maid had passed.

[ 186 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"My sentiments exactly/' growled Captain Slyc^ "but pray recall who's
host, or 'tis two pistols I shall fire/'

" Tore God, good Captains!" Ebenezer croaked, but legs and sphincters
both betrayed him; unable to say on, he sank with wondrous odor to his
knees and buried his face in the seat of his chair- At that instant the rear
door opened.

"Stay, here's the barmaidr cried Captain Scurry. "Fetch me two beeis,
lass, while I jettison this stinkard!"

"Beers be damnedl" roared Captain Slye, who had a view of the en-
trance door. "Yonder goes our Laureate, I swear, along the street!"

"I'faith let's at him, then/' said the other, "ere he onoe more slips his
mooring!"

Turning their backs on bear and poet alike they hurried out to the street,
from which came shortly the sound of pistols and a retreating clamor of
curses. But Ebenezer heard them not, for at mention of their quarry he
swooned dead away upon the tavern flags*

9: FURTHER SEA-POETRY, COMPOSED IN THE STABLES
OF THE KING Q> THE SEAS

WHEN HE REGAINED HIS SENSES EBENEZER FOUND HIMSELF IN THE

stables of the King o' the Seas, lying in the hay; his friend Burlingame,
dressed in Scotch cloth, squatted at his hip and fanned his face with the
double-entry ledger.

"I was obliged to fetch you outside/' said Heniy with a smile, "else you'd
have driven away the clients/"

"A pox upon the clients!" the poet said weakly. "Twas a pair of their
clients brought me to this pass!"

"Are you your own man now, or shall I fan thcc farther?"

"No farther, prithee, at least from where you stand, or I'll succumb en-
tirely." He moved to sit up, made a sour face, and lay back with a sigh,

"The fault is mine, Eben; had I known aught of your urgency I'd not
have lingered such a time in yonder privy. How is*t you did not use this hay
instead? Tis no mean second."

"I cannot make light off Ebenezer declared 'The white you sported

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 187 ]

with the wench, two pirate captains had like to put a ball betwixt my eyes,
for no more cause than that I ventured to settle their quarrel!"

"Pirate captains!"

"Aye, I'm certain oft," Ebenezer insisted. Tve read enough in
Esquemeling to know a pirate when I see one: ferocious fellows as like as
twins; they were dressed all in black, with black beards and walking sticks."

"Why did you not declare your name and office?" Burlingame asked.
44 'Tis not likely they'd dare molest you then."

Ebenezer shook his head. "I thank Heav'n I did not, for else my life had
ended on the spot. Twas the Laureate they sought, Henry, to kill and
murther him!"

"Nay! But why?"

"The Lord alone knows why; yet I owe my life solely to some poor wight,
that walking past the window they took for me and gave him chase. Past
that I know naught. Pray God they missed him and are gone for good!*'

"Belike they are," Burlingame said. "Pirates, you say! Well, 'tis not im-
possible, after all But say, thou'rt all beshit and must be scrubbed."

Ebenezer groaned. "Ignominy! How waddle to the wharf in this condi-
tion, to fetch clean breeches?"

"Marry, I said naught o' waddling, sir," said Burlingame, in the tones of
a country servant. "Only fetch off thy drawers and breeches now, that me
little Dolly maught clean 'em out, and I shall bring ye fresh 'uns."

"Dolly?"

"Aye, Joan Freckles yonder in the King o' the Seas."

Ebenezer blushed. "And yet she is a woman, for all her harlotry, and I
the Laureate of Maryland! I cannot have her hear oft."

"Hear oft!" Burlingame laughed. "You've near suffocated her already!
Who was it found you on the floor, d'ye think, and helped me fetch you
hither? Off with 'em now, Master Laureate, and spare me thy modesty.
'Twas a woman wiped thy bum at birth and another shall in dotage: what
matter if one do't in between?" And Ebenezer having undone his buttons
with reluctance, his friend made bold to give a mighty jerk, and the poet
stood exposed*

"La now/' cEuickled Burlingame. "Thou'rt fairly made, if somewhat
fouled."

"I die of shame and cannot even cover myself for filth," the poet com-
plained. "Do make haste, Henry, ere someone find me thus!"

"1 shall, for be't man or maid you'd not stay virgin long, I swear, thou'rt
that fetching/' He laughed again at Ebenezer's misery and gathered up

[ l88 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

the soiled garments. "Adieu, now: thy servant will return anon, if the
pirates do not get him. Make shift to clean your self in the meantime.

"But prithee, how?"

Burlingame shrugged. "Only look about, good sir. A clever man is never
lost for long." And off he went across the yard to the rear of the King o'
the Seas, calling for Dolly to come get his prize.

Ebenezer at cJnce looked about him for some means to remedy his un-
happy condition. Straw he rejected at once, though there was enough and
to spare of it in the stable: it could not even be clenched in the hand with
comfort. Next he considered his fine holland handkerchief and remem-
bered that it was in his breeches pocket

" Tis as well," he judged on second thought, "for it hath a murtherous
row of great French buttons."

Nor could he sacrifice his coat, shirt, or stockings, for he lacked on the
one hand clothes enough to throw away, and on the other courage enough
to give the barmaid further laundry, "A clever man is never lost for long,"
he repeated to himself, and regarding next the tail of a great bay gelding
in a stall behind him, rejected it on the grounds that its altitude and posi-
tion rendered it at once inaccessible and dangerous. "What doth this teach
us," he reflected with pursed lips, "if not that one man's wit is poor indeed?
Fools and wild beasts live by mother wit and learn from experience; the
wise man learns from the wits and lives of others. Marry, is't for naught !
spent two years at Cambridge, and three times two with Henry in my
father's summerhouse? If native wit can't save me, then education shall!"

Accordingly he searched his education for succor, beginning with his
memory of history. "Why should men prize the records of the past," he
asked, "save as lessons for the present? Twene an idle pastime else," Yet
though he was no stranger to Herodotus, Thucydides, Polybius, Suetonius,
Sallust, and other chroniclers ancient and modern, he couW recall in them
no precedent for his present plight, and thus no counsel, and had at length
to give over the attempt u Tis clear," he concluded, "that History teacheth
not a man, but mankind; her muse's pupil is the body politic or its leaders.
Nay, more," he reasoned further, shivering a bit in the breeze off the
harbor, "the eyes of Clio are like the eyes of snakes, that can see naught but
motion: she marks the rise and fall of nations, but of things immutable-
eternal verities and timeless problems— she rightly takes no notice, for fear
of poaching on Philosophy's preserve/*

Next, therefore, he summoned to mind as much as ever he could of
Aristotle, Epicurus, Zeno, Augustine* Thomas Aquinas, and the *est> not

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 189 ]

forgetting his Platonfcal professors and their one-time friend Descartes; but
though they'd no end of interest in whether his plight was real or fancied,
and whether it merited concern sub specie aeternitatis, and whether his
future action with regard to it was already determined or entirely in his
hands, yet none advanced specific counsel. "Can it be they all shat syllo-
gisms, that have nor stench nor stain/' he wondered, "and naught besides?
Or is't that no fear travels past their Reason, to ruin their breeches withal?"
The truth of the matter was, he decided, peering across the court in vain for
Henry, that philosophy dealt with generalities, categories, and abstractions
alone, like More's eternal spissitude, and spoke of personal problems only
insofar as they illustrated general ones; in any case, to the best of his
recollection it held no answer for such homely, practical predicaments as
his own.

He did not even consider physics, astronomy, and the other areas of
natural philosophy, for the same reason; nor did he crack his memory on
the plastic arts, for he knew full well no Phidias or Michelangelo would
deign to immortalize a state like his, whatever their attraction for human
misery. No, he resolved at last, it was to literature he must turn for help,
and should have sooner, for literature alone of all the arts and sciences took
as her province the entire range of man's experience and behavior— from
cradle to grave and beyond, from emperor to hedge-whore, from the burn-
ing of cities to the breaking of wind— and human problems of every
magnitude: in literature alone might one find catalogued with equal care
the ancestors of Noah, the ships of the Achaians

"And the bum-swipes of Garg^ntual" he exclaimed aloud. "How is't I .
did not think of them till now?" He reviewed with joy that chapter out of
Rabelais wherein the young Gargantua tries his hand, as it were, at sundry
swabs and wipers— not in desperation, to be sure, but in a spirit of pure
empiricism, to discover the noblest for good and all— and awards the prize
at last to the neck of a live white goose; but hens and guineas though there
were a-plenty in the yard around the stable, not a goose could Ebenezer
spy. "Nor were't fit," he decided a moment later, somewhat crestfallen,
"save in a comic or satiric book, to use a silly fowl so hardly, that anon must
perish to please our bellies. Good Rabelais surely meant it as a jest." In like
manner, though with steadily mounting consternation, he considered what
other parallels to his circumstances he could remember from what literature
he had read, and rejected each in turn as inapplicable or irrelevant. Litera-
ture too, he concluded with heavy heart, availed him not, for though it
afforded one a certain sophistication about life and a release from one's

[ 190 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

single mortal destiny, it did not, except accidentally, afford solutions to
practical problems. And after literature, what else remained?

He recalled John McEvoy's accusation that he knew nothing of the en-
tire great real world and the actual people in it. What, in fact, he asked
himself, would others do in his place, who did know the great real world?
But of such knowledgeable folk he knew but two at all well— Burlingarne
and McEvoy— and it was unthinkable of either that they would ever be
in his place. Yet knowledge of the world, he quite understood, went further
than personal acquaintance: how fared the savage hordes and heathen peo-
ples of the earth, who never saw a proper bum-swab? The Arabs of the
desert, who had no forest leaves nor any paper? Surely they contrived a
measure of cleanliness in some wise,, else each perforce would live a hermit
and the race die out in a single generation. But of all the customs and
exotic practices of which he'd heard from Burlingame or read in his youth-
ful books of voyages and gravel, only one could he remember that was to
the point; the peasant folk of India, Burlingame had once observed to
him, ate with their right hands only, inasmuch as the left was customarily
used for personal cleanliness.

44 Tis no solution, but a mere postponement of my difficulties," the poet
sighed, "What hope hath he for other aid, whom wit and the world have
both betrayed?"

He started, and despite the discomfort of his position, glowed with
pleasure when he recognized the couplet* "Whate'er my straits, I still am
virgin and poet! What hope hath he , , . Would Heav'n I'd ink and quill,
to pen him ere he cools!" He resolved in any case to dog-ear a leaf in his
notebook as a reminder to set down the couplet later; it was not until the
volume was spread open in his hands, and he was leafing through its empty
pages, that he saw in it what none of his previous efforts had led him to.

"Tis a propitious omen, b'm'faith!" said he, not a little awed. He
regretted having torn out in the London posthouse those sheets in the
ledger on which Ben Bragg had kept his accounts, not only because his
years with Peter Paggen had soured his taste for the world of debit and
credit, but also because he remembered how scarce was paper in the
provinces, and so was loath to waste a single sheet* Indeed, so very reluctant
was he, for a moment he seriously considered tearing out instead what few
pages he'd already rhymed on: his Hymn to Chastity, the little quatrain
recalled to him by Burlingame, and his preliminary salute to the ship
Pow'don. Only the utter impropriety, the virtual sacrilege of the deed,
restrained his hand and kd him at length to use two fresh and virgin sheets

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 191 ]

—and then two more—for the work, which completed with no small labor,
owing to the drying effect of the breeze, he turned into an allegory thus:
the unused sheets were songs unborn, which yet had power, as it were in
utero, to cleanse and ennoble him who would in time deliver them— in
short, the story of his career to date. Or they were token of his double
essence, called forth too late to prevent his shame but able still to cleanse
the leavings of his fear. Or again— but his pleasant allegorizing was broken
off by the appearance, from the rear of the King o' the Seas, of befreckled
Dolly, bringing his drawers and breeches out to dry. Despite his embarrass-
ment he craned his head around the stable entrance and inquired after
Burlingame, who had by this time been absent for nearly an hour; but the
woman professed to know nothing of his whereabouts.

"Yet 'twas but across the street he went!" Ebenezer protested.

"I know naught oft/' Dolly said stubbornly, and turned to go.

"Wait!" the poet called

"Well?"

He blushed. "Tis something chill out here— might you fetch me a
blanket from upstairs, or other covering, against my man's return?"

Dolly shook her head. " Tis not a service of the house, sir, save to them
as stop the night. Your man paid me a shilling for the breeches, but naught
was said of blankets."

"Plague take thee!" Ebenezer cried, in his wrath almost forgetting to
conceal himself. "Was Midas e'er so greedy as a woman? You'll get thy
filthy shilling anon, when my man appears!"

"No penny, no paternoster" the girl said pertly. "I have no warrant
he'll appear."

"Thy master shall hear of this impertinencel"

She shrugged, Burlingame-like.

"A toddy, then, i'God, or coffee, ere I take ill! 'Sheart, girl, I am "

He checked himself, remembering the pirate captains. "Tis a gentleman
that asks you, not a common sailor!"

"Were't King William himself he'd have not a sip on credit at lie King
o' the Seas."

Ebenezer gave over the attempt, "If I must catch my death in this foul
stable/' he sighed, "might you at least provide me ink and quill, or is that
too no service of the house?"

"Ink and quill are free for all to use," Dolly allowed, and shortly brought
them to the stable door.

t 192 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Ye must use your own book to scribble in," she declared- "Paper's too
dear to throw away,"

"And I threatened you with your master! Marry, thou'rt his fortune!"
Alone again, he set on the dog-eared page of his ledger book that
aphoristic couplet which had so aided him, and would have tried his hand
at further verses, but the discomfort of his situation made creation impos-
sible. The passage of time alarmed him: the sun passed the meridian and
began its fall toward the west; soon, surely, it would be time to board the
shallop which was to feny them to the Poseidon, and still there was no
sign of Burlingame. The wind changed direction, blew more directly off
the harbor and into the stable, and chilled the poet through. At length he
was obliged to seek shelter in an empty stall nearby, where enough fresh
hay was piled to cover his legs and hips when he sat in it* Indeed, after his
initial distaste he found himself warm and comfortable enough, if still a
trifle apprehensive— as much for Burlingame's welfare as for his own, for he
readily imagined his friend's having fallen afoul of the pirate captains. Re-
solving to cheer himself with happier thoughts (and at the same time fight
against the drowsiness that his relative comfort induced at once) be turned
again to that page in his notebook which borer the Poseidon quatrain. And
for all he'd never yet laid eyes upon that vessel, aftet some deliberation he
joined to the first quatrain a second, which called her frankly

A noble Ship, from Deck to P«dte,
Akin to those that Homers Creeks
Satfd east to Troy in Day* of Yow,

From here it was small labor to extend the tribute to captain and crew
as well, though in truth he'd met no seafaring men in his life save
Burlingame and the fearsome piiate captains. Giving himself wholly to the
muse, and rejecting quatrains for stanzas of a length befitting the «pfc» he
wrote on:

Our Captain, like a briny God,
Beside the Helm did pace and plod,
And shouted Orders at the Sty,
Where doughty Seamen, Mat-top Aigfc,
Unfurl'd and furl'd our migfity Sob,
To catch the Winds but miss the Gal* .
O noble, $dty Tritons Race,
Who br<m the wild Atlaatics Fae*
And reckless best both Wind and Tide:
God bless th*e> Ltd*, fm Albioos

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 193 ]

In a kind of reverie he saw himself actually aboard the Poseidon, dry-
breeched and warm, his gear safely stowed below. The sky was brilliant.
A fresh wind from the east raised whitecaps in the sparkling ocean,
threatened to lift his hat and the hats of the cordial gentlemen with whom
he stood in converse on the poop, and fanned from red to yellow the coals
of good tobacco in their pipes. With what grace did the crewmen race aloft
to make sail! To what a chorus did the anchor rise dripping from the bottom
of the sea and the mighty ship make way! The gentlemen held their hats,
peered down at the wave of foam beneath the sprit and up at the sea birds
circling off the yards, squinted their eyes against sun and spray, and laughed
in awe at the scrambling sailors. Anon a steward from below politely made
a sign, and all the gay company retired to dinner in the Captain's quarters.
Ebenezer sat at that worthy's right,, and no wit was sharper than his, nor
any hunger. But what a feast was laid before them! Dipping his quill ag&in,
he wrote:

Ye ask, What eat our merry Band
En Route to lovely MARYLAND?
I answer: Ne'er were such Delights
As met our Sea~$harp'd Appetites
E'er serv'd to Jove and Junos Breed
By Vulcan and by Ganymede.

There was more to be said, but so sweeter was the dream than its articula-
tion, and so thorough his fatigue, he scarce could muster gumption to
Subscribe the usual E.G., Gw*, P* & V of M* before his eyes completely
closed, his head nodded forward, and he knew no more.

It seemed but a moment that he slept; yet when roused by the noise of a
groom leading a horse into the stable, he observed with alarm that the sun
was well along in the western sky: the square of light from the doorway
stretched almost to where he sat in the straw. He leaped up, remembered
his semi-nudity, and snatched a double handful of straw to cover himself.

"The jakes is there across the yard, sir," the boy said, not visibly sur-
prised, "though I grant 'tis little sweeter than this stable/'

"Nay, you mistake me, lad But no matter. See you those drawers and

breeches on yonder line? 'Twill be a great service to me if you will feel of
them, whether they be dry, and if so, fetch them hither with all haste, for I
must catch a ferry to the Downs/'

The young man did as instructed, and soon Ebenezer was able to leave
the stable behind him at last and run with all possible speed to the wharf,
searching as he ran for Burlingame or the two pirate captains into whose

[ 194 3 THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

clutches he feared his friend had fallen. When he reached the wharf,
breathless, he found to his dismay that the shallop was already gone and
his trunk with it, though Burlingame's remained behind on the pier exactly
where it had been placed that morning. His heart sank.

An old mariner sat nearby on a coil of rope belonging to the shallop,
smoking a long clay pipe*

"I say, sir, when did the shallop sail?"

"Not half an hour past/' the old man said, not troubling to turn his
eyes, "Ye can spy her yet/'

"Was there a short fellow among the passengers* that wore"— he was
ready to describe Burlingame's port-purple coat, but remembered in time
his friend's disguise— "that called himself Bertrand Burton, a servant of
mine?"

"None that I saw. No servants at all, that I saw/*

"But why did you leave this trunk ashore and freight its neighbor?**
Ebenezer demanded. "They were to go together to the Poseidon/*

" Twas none o' my doing," said the mariner with g shrug, "Mr, Cooke
took his with him when he sailed; the other man sails tonight on a different
ship/'

"Mr. Cooke!" cried Ebeneser. He was about to protest that he himself
was Ebenezer Cooke, Laureate of Maryland, but thought better of it: in
the first place, the pirates might still be searching for him— the old mariner,
for all he knew, might be in their mysterious employ; Cooke, moreover,
was a surname by no means rare, and the whole thing could well be no
more than a temporary confusion.

"Yet, surely/' he ended by saying, "the man was not Ei*nwr Cooke,
Laureate of Maryland?"

But the old man nodded "Twas that same gentleman, the poetical
wight"

"Ffaithr

"He wore black breeches like your own," the sailor volunteered, "and a
purple coat— none o' the cleanest, for all his lofty post"

"Burlingamel" the poet gasped,

"Nay, CooSe it was. A sort of poet, crossing on the Po&idon"

But for what cause would his friend assume his name and leave him
stranded in the stable of the King o' the Seas? Ebeneaer could not
fathom it

'Then prithee," he asked, with some difficulty and no little apprehension,
"who might that second gentleman be^ the owner of this tiunk here, that
sails tonight on a different vessel?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 195 ]

The old man sucked his pipe. "He'd not the dress of a gentleman/' he
declared at length, "nor yet a gentleman's face, but rather a brined and
weathered look, like any sailor. The others called him Captain, and he them
likewise."

Ebenezer paled. "Not Captain Slye?" he asked fearfully.
"Aye, now you mention it," the old man said, "there was a Captain Slye
among their number."
"And Scurry too?"

"Aye, Slye and Scurry they were, as like as twins. They and the third
came seeking the poetical gentleman not five full minutes after he'd sailed,
as you've come seeking them. But they went no farther than the nearest
house for rum, where 'tis likely you'll find 'em yet."

In spite of himself Ebenezer cried "Heav'n forfend!" and glanced with
terror across the street.

The old man shrugged again and spat into the harbor. "Haply there's
company more proper than sailors ashore," he allowed, "but none more

merry Out on't!" he interrupted himself. "You've but to read the name

from off his baggage there, where he wrote it not ten minutes past I've not
the gift of letters myself, else I had thought oft ere now."

Ebenezer examined his friend's trunk at once and found on one handle
a bit of lettered pasteboard: C^* /"* Coode.

"Nay!" His legs betrayed him; he was obliged to sit on the trunk or dis-
grace anew his fresh-dried drawers. "Tell me not 'twas Black John Coode!"
"Black or white, John or Jim, 'twas Coode," the other affirmed: "Captain
Slye, Captain Scurry, and Captain Coode. They're yonder in the King o'
the Seas."

Suddenly Ebenezer understood all, though his understanding little
calmed his fear: Burlingame, after learning from Ebenezer in the stable
about the pirates and their quarry, had spied them and perhaps Coode as
well in the neighborhood of the tavern and realized that a plot was afoot
against his charge— who as Laureate to Lord Baltimore was after all a potent,
even a potentially deadly enemy to their seditious schemes, for the exposure
of which few better tools existed than the knife-edged Hudibrastic. What
nobler course, then, or more in the spirit of faithful guardianship, than to
change to his original clothes again, declare himself the Laureate (since,
clearly, they knew not their victim's face), and throw them off the scent
by apparently embarking, trunk and all, for the Poseidon? It was a stratagem
worthy of both the courage and the resourcefulness of his friend: an
adventure equal to his escape from the pirate Thomas Pound or his
interception of the letters from Benjamin RicaudI Moreover, it had been

[ 196 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

accomplished at the risk of his own possessions, which Coode seemed now
to have appropriated. The poet's heart wanned: the solicitude, the brave
self-abnegation of his friend brought moisture to his eyes.

"And to think/' thought he^ "I was the while misdoubting him from the
safety of my horse stalll"

Very well, he resolved: he would show himself worthy of such high re-
gard. "How is't you gave this Coode leave to claim my trunk?" he
demanded of the old seafarer, who had returned to his pipe and meditations.

"Thy trunk, sir?"

"My trunk! Are you blind as well as unlettered, that you failed to see the
Laureate and me this morning when we had our trunks put down from the
London carriage?"

"Marry, I know naught oft," the old man declared. "Tis my Joseph
sails the shallop, my son Joseph, and I but mind the berth til! he returns."

"And leave your client's trunks to any rogue that claims them? A proper
ferryman you are, and your Joseph, b'm'faithl This wretch John Coode
deigns not even to counterfeit, but with your aid robs openly in broad
daylight, and by's own name! I'll have the sheriff!"

"Nay, prithee, sir!" the other cried, "My boy knew naught oft, I swear,
nor did I think to aid a robber! The meny captains strode up bold as
brass, sir, and asked for the poetical gentleman, and said This chest is
Captain Coode's and must be on the Morphides, by sundown, for the Isle
of Man/"

"And stopped thy questions with a guinea, I doubt not?"

'Two bob," the sailor answered humbly. "How might I know the baggage
wasn't his?"

"Tis compounding the felony in any case," Ebeaezer declared "Is't
worth two bob to breathe your last in prison?"

By dint of this and similar threats Ebenezer soon pemiaded the old sailor
of his error. "Yet how may I know 'tis thine, sir," he nevertheless inquired,
"now youVe raised the question? Haply 'tis thou'rt the thie^ and not
Captain Coode, and who shall save me then from jail?"

'The trunk is mine in trust alonV the poet replied, "to see it safely to
my master,"

Thou'rt a servingman, and chide me so?" The sailor set his whiskered
jaw. "Who might your master b^ that dresses Ws maa like any St Paul's
fop?" 7

Ebenezer ignored the slur, "He is that same poetical gentleman who
took the first trunk with him— Ebenezer Coofce, the Lauieate of MaiylaacL

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 197 ]

And 'twill go hard for you and your loutish Joseph should he speak of this
nonsense in the right places/'

"I' God, then take the accursed box for all of me!" the poor man cried,
and promised to send trunk and servant together to the Poseidon as soon
as the shallop returned. "Yet prithee show me just one proof or token of
your post/' he begged, "to ease my heart: for how shall I fare at the hands
of the three captains, if thou'rt the thief and they the owners?"

"Never fear/' Ebenezer said. "I shall show you proof enough in two
minutes: page upon page of the Laureate's writing." He had just remem-
bered, with a mixture of concern and relief, that his notebook was yet in
the horse stall. But the old man shook his head. "Were't branded on your
arse in crimson letters or graven like the Tables of the Law I'd not make
ftog nor dog oft."

"Try my patience no more, old man!" the poet warned. "The veriest
numskull knows a poem by the look oft, whether he grasp the sense or no.
I'll show you verses fit for the ears of the gods, and there's an end to your
caviling!" Charging the mariner as sternly as he could to safeguard
Burlingame's trunk and to ready the shallop, should it return, for instant
sailing, he made his way in a great arc across the street, giving a wide berth
to the entrance of the King o' the Seas, traversed again the alleyway leading
to the back yard of the ordinary, and with pounding heart re-entered the
familiar stable, expecting at any moment to meet tie horrendous trio of
captains. He hastened to the stall in which he'd composed his nautical
verses: there in the straw, where in embarrassment and haste he'd left it,
was the precious ledger. He snatched it up. Had that stableboy, perhaps,
defaced it, or filched a sheaf of pages? No, it was intact, and in good order.

"And reckless best both Wind and Tide" he quoted from the page, and
sighed with pleasure at his own artistry. "It hath the very sound of toss and
tempest!"

But there was no time then for such delights; the shallop might be moor-
ing at that very moment, and the villains in the tavern would not drink
rum forever. With all possible speed he scanned the remaining stanza of
the morning— those seven or eight couplets describing the shipboard feast.
He sighed again,, tucked the book under his arm, and hurried out of the
stable into the courtyard.

"Stay, Master Poet, or thou'rt dead," said a voice behind him, and he
whirled about to face a brace of black-garbed fiends from Hell, each with
his left hand leaning on an ebon cane and his right aiming a pistol at the
poet's chest.

"Doubly dead," the other added.

[ 198 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTO*

Ebenezer could not speak.

''Shall I send a ball through his Romish heart, Captain Scurry, and spare
ye the powder?"

"Nay, thankee, Captain Stye," replied the other, "Twas Captain
Coode's desire to see whatever queer fish might strike the bait, ere we have
his gullet. But the pleasure's thine when that hour comes,"

'Tour servant, Captain Scurry," said Captain Siye* "Inside with ye*
Cooke, or my ball's in thy belly,"

But Ebenezer could not move. At length, belting their pistols as un-
necessary, his fearsome escorts took each an elbow and propelled him, half
a-swoon, to the rear door of the ordinary.

"For God's sake spare mel" he croaked, his eyes shut fast

" 'Tis not that gentleman can do't>" said one of his captors. *The man
we're fetching ye to is the man to dicker with."

They entered into a kind of pantry or storage room* and one of his
captors— the one called Stye— went ahead to open another door, which led
into the steamy kitchen of the King o* the Seas.

"Ahoy, John Coode!" he bellowed. "We've caught ye your poet!"

Ebenezer then was given such a push from behind that he slipped on
the greasy tiles and fell asprawl beside a round table in the center of the
room, directly at the feet of the man who sat them. Everyone laughed:
Captain Scurry, who had pushed him; Captain Slye, who stood nearby;
some woman whom, since her feet dangled just before his eyes, Ebenezer
judged to be sitting in Coode's lap; and Coode himself. Tremblingly the
poet looked up and saw that the woman was the fickle Dolly, who sat with
her arms about the archfiend's neck.

Then, as fearfully as though expecting Lucifer himself, he turned his
eyes to John Coode, What he saw was, if rather less horrendous, not a whit
less astonishing: the smiling face of Henry Burlingame.

10: THE LAUREATE SUFFERS LITERARY CRITICISM
AND BOARDS THE POSEIDON

His friend's smile vanished. He pushed the barmaid off his lap, sprang
scowling to his feet, and pulled Ebenezer up by his shirtfroat

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 199 ]

"You blockhead!" he said angrily, before the poet could say more, "Who
gave ye leave to sneak about the stables? I told ye to scour the docks for
that fool poet!"

Ebenezer was too surprised to speak.

''This is my man Henry Cook," Burlingame said to the black captains.
"Can ye not tell a poet from a common servant?"

"Your man?" cried Captain Scurry. "I'faith, 'tis the same shitten puppy
was annoying us this morning— is't not, Captain Slye?"

"Aye and it is," said Captain Slye. "What's more, he was scribbling in
that very book there, that ye claim is the poet's."

Burlingame turned on Ebenezer again, raising his hand. "I've a mind
to box thy lazy ears! Idling in a tavern when I ordered ye to the docks!
Small wonder the Laureate escaped us! How came ye by the notebook?"
he demanded, and when Ebenezer (though he began to comprehend that
his friend was protecting him) was unable to think of a reply, added; "I sup-
pose ye found it among our man's baggage- on the wharf and marked it a
find worth drinking to?"

"Aye," Ebenezer managed to say. "That is— aye."

"Ah God, what a lout!" Burlingame de'clared to the others. "Every
minute at the bottle, and he holds his rum no better than an altar-boy. I
suppose ye took ill oft, then"— he sneered at Ebenezer— "and puked out
your belly in the stable?"

The poet nodded and, daring finally to trust his voice, he asserted, "I
woke but an hour past and ran to the wharf, but the Laureate's trunk was
gone. Then I remembered I'd left the notebook in the stable and came
to fetch it."

Burlingame threw up his hands to the captains as in despair. "And to
you this wretch hath the look of Maryland's Laureate? I aim surrounded
by fools! Fetch us two drams and something to eat, Dolly," he ordered,
"and all of you begone save my precious addlepate here. I've words for
him."

Captain Slye and Captain Scurry exited crestfallen, and Dolly, who had
attended the whole scene indifferently, went out to pour the drinks.
Ebenezer fairly collapsed into a chair and clutched at Burlingame's coat
sleeve.

"Dear God!" he whispered. "What is this all about? Why is't you pose
as Coode, and why leave me shivering all day in the stable?"
"Softly," Henry warned, looking over his shoulder. " Tis a ticklish spot

[200] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

we're in, albeit a useful one. Have faith in me: I shall lay it open plainly
when I can."

The barmaid returned with two glasses of rum and a plate of cold veal.
"Send Slye and Scurry to the wharf," he directed her, "and tell them I'll
be on the Morphides by sundown."

"Can you trust her?" Ebenezer asked when she had gone. "Surely she
knows thou'rt not John Coode, after this morning."

Burlingame smiled. "She knows her part. Fall to, now, and Fll tell you
yours."

Ebenezer did as advised— he'd had no food all day— and was somewhat
calmed by the rum, which, however, made him shudder. Burlingame peered
through a crack in the door leading into the main hall of the King o' the
Seas, and apparently satisfied that none could overhear, explained his posi-
tion thus:

"Directly I left you this morning I went straightway to the dock to fetch
fresh breeches, pondering all the while what you had told me of the two
pirate captains. Twas my surmise they were no pirates, the more for that
'twas you they sought— what use would a pirate have for a poet? Yet, from
your picture of them, their manner and their quest, I had another thought,
no less alarming, which I soon saw to be the truth, Your two black
scoundrels were there on the very dock where stood our chests, and I knew
them at once for Slye and Scurry, two smugglers that have worked for
Coode before, 'Twas clear Coode knew of your appointment and meant
you no good, though what his motives were I could but guess; 'twas clear
as well your hunters did not know their quarry's face and could be lightly
gulled. They were speaking with the lad that sails the shallop; I made bold
to crouch behind our trunks and heard the ferryman say that you and your
companion were in the King o' the Seas— happily I'd given him no name.
Slye said 'twas impossible, inasmuch as but a short time since they'd been
in the King o' the Seas, and had run out on seeing their victim in the street
but had lost him."

"Aye, just so," Ebenezer said. "Tis the last thing I recall. But whom
they spied I cannot guess."

"Nor could I, Yet the ferryman held to his stoty, and at length Slye
proposed another search of the tavern. But Scurry protested 'twas time to
fetch John Coode from off the fleet/'

"Coode aboard the fleet!"

"Aye," Burlingame declared. 'This and other things they said gave tne
to believe that Coode hath sailed disguised frpm London on the very man-

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 201 ]

o'-war with the Governor and his company, who joined the fleet this morn-
ing. No doubt he fears for his cause, and wished to see first-hand what
favor his enemies have with Nicholson. Then, I gathered, Slye and Scurry
were to meet him in the Downs and fetch him to their own ship, which
sails tonight for the Isle of Man and thence to Maryland."

"I'God, the boldness of the man!" exclaimed the poet

Burlingame smiled. "You think he's bold? Tis no long voyage from Lon-
don to Plymouth."

"But under Nicholson's very nose! In the company of the very men he'd
driven from the Province!"

"Yet as I crouched this while behind our baggage," Burlingame said,

"an even bolder notion struck me But first I must tell you one other

thing I heard. Scurry asked Slye, How would they know their leader in
disguise, when they'd seen not even his natural face? And Slye proposed
they use a kind of password employed by Coode's men before the revolu-
tion, to discover whether a third party was one of their number. Now it
happened I knew two passwords very well from the old days when I'd
feigned to be a rebel: In one the first man asks his confederate, 'How doth
your friend Jim sit his mare these days?' By which is meant, How sure is
King James's tenure on the throne? The second then replies, 'I fear me
he'll be thrown; he wants a better mare/ And the third man, if he be privy
to the game, will say, 'Haply 'tis the mare wants a better rider.' The other
was for use when a man wished to make himself known to a party of
strangers as a rebel: he would approach them on the street or in a tavern
and say "Have you seen my friend, that wears an orange cravat?' That is
to say, the speaker is a friend of the House of Orange. One of the party
then cries, 'Marry, will you mark the man!' which is a pun on Queen
Mary and King William.

"On hearing their plans," Burlingame went on, "I resolved at once to
thwart 'em: my first thought was for you and me to pose as Slye and Scurry,
fetch Coode from off the man-o'-war, and in some wise detain him till we
learned his plans and why he wanted you."

" 'Swounds! Twould never have succeeded!"

"That may be," Burlingame admitted. "In any case, though I'd learned
that Slye and Scurry did not know Coode, it did not follow they were
strangers to him— indeed, they are a famous pair of rascals. For that reason
I decided to be John Coode again, as once before on Peregrine Browne's
ship. I stepped around the trunks and inquired after my friend with the
orange cravat"

[202] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Ebenezer expressed his astonishment and asked whether, considering
that Burlingame wore the dress of a servant and that Coode was supposed
to be aboard the man-o'-war, the move were not for all its daring ill-advised.
His friend replied that Coode was known to be given to unusual dress-
priest's robes, minister's frocks, and various military uniforms, for example
—and that it was in fact quite characteristic of him to appear as if from
nowhere among his cohorts and disappear similarly, with such unexpected-
ness that not a few of the more credulous believed him to have occult
powers.

"At least they believed me," he said, "once they had composed them-
selves again, and I gave 'em small chance to question. I feigned displeasure
at their tardiness, and fell into a great rage when they said the Laureate had
slipped their halter. By the most discreet interrogation (for 'twas necessary
to act as if I knew more than they) I was able to piece together an odd
tale, which still I cannot fully fathom: Slye and Scurry had come from
London with some wight who claimed to be Ebenezer Cooke; on orders
from Coode they'd posed as Maryland planters and escorted the false
Laureate to Plymouth, where I fancy they meant to put him on the
Morphides for some sinister purpose— belike they thought him a spy of
Baltimore's. But whoe'er the fellow was he must have smelled the plot, for
he slipped their clutches sometime this morning.

"Now, think not I'd forgotten you," he went on; "I feared you'd find
some other clothes and show yourself at any moment. Therefore I led Slye
and Scurry to a tavern up the street for rum and detained them as long as
possible, trying to hatch a plan for sending you a message. Every few min-
utes I looked down towards the wharf, pretending to seek a servant of
mine, and when at last I saw your trunk was gone I guessed you'd gone
alone to the Poseidon. Anon, when we walked this way agpin, the old man
at the wharf confirmed that Eben Cooke had sailed off in the shallop with
his trunk."

Ebenezer shook his head in wonder. "But "

"Stay, till I finish. We came here then to pass the time till evening; I
was quite sure of your safety, and planned simply to send a message to
you by the shallop-man, so you'd not think I'd betrayed you or fallen into
peril. When Dolly told me your notebook was in the stable I swore to Slye
and Scurry we'd catch you yet, inasmuch as a poet will go to Hell for his
no!:ebook, and stationed them to watch the stall for your return— in fact I
planned to send the book along to you anon with my message in it, and

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 203 ]

used the stratagem merely to rid myself for a time of those twin apes.
Imagine my alarm when they fetched you in!"

Ebenezer remembered, with some discomfort, the scene his entrance had
interrupted.

" Tis too fantastic for words," he declared. "You thought 'twas I had
gone, and I 'twas you— I say, the fellow was wearing your coat!"

"What? Impossible!"

"Nay, I'm certain oft. The old man at the dock described it: a soiled
port-purple coat and black breeches. Twas for that I guessed it to be you."

"Dear God! Tis marvelous!" He laughed aloud. "What a comedy!"

Ebenezer confessed his ignorance of the joke.

"Only think on't!" his friend exclaimed. "When Slye and Scurry came
looking for their Laureate this morning and made sport of you, not knowing
you were he, Dolly and I had gone back yonder in the stable to play: in the
first stall we ran to we found some poor wight sleeping, a servingman by
the look of him, and 'twas he I traded clothes with on the spot. Right
pleased he was to make the trade, too!"

" 'Sheart, you mean it was the false Laureate?"

"Who else, if the man you heard of wore my coat? Belike he'd just fled
Slye and Scurry and was hiding from them."

"Then 'twas he they saw go past the window after, which saved my life!"

"No doubt it was; and learning of your trunk he must have made off
with't. A daring fellow!"

"He'll not get far," Ebenezer said grimly. "I'll have him off the ship
the instant we're aboard."

Burlingame pursed his lips, but said nothing.

"What's wrong, Henry?"

"You plan to sail on the Poseidon?'9 Burlingame asked.

"Of course! What's to prevent our slipping off right now, while Slye and
Scurry wait us on their ship?"

"You forget my duty."

Ebenezer raised his eyebrows. "Is't I or you that have forgot?"

"Look here, dear Eben," Burlingame said warmly. "I know not who
this impostor is, but I'll warrant he's merely some pitiful London coxcomb
out to profit by your fame. Let him be Eben Cooke on the Poseidon:
haply the Captain will see the imposture and clap him in irons, or mavbe
Coode will murther or corrupt him, since they're in the same fleet. Even if
he cany the fraud to Maryland we can meet him at the wharf with the

[204] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

sheriff, and there's an end to't. Meanwhile your trunk is safely stowed in
the ship's hold— he cannot touch it/'

"Then 'fore God, Henry, what is't you propose?"

"I know not what John Coode hath up his sleeve/' said Burlingame, "nor
doth Lord Baltimore nor any man else. Tis certain he's alarmed at
Nicholson's appointment and fears for his own foul cause; methinks he
plans to land before the fleet, but whether to cover all traces of his former
mischief or to sow the seeds for more I cannot guess, nor what exactly he
plans for you. I mean to carry on my role as Coode and sail to Maryland
on the Morphides, with my trusted servant Henry Cook/'

"Ah no, Henry! Tis absurd!"

Burlingame shrugged and filled his pipe. 'We'd steal a march on Coode/*
he said, "and haply scotch his plot to boot/'

He went on to explain that Captains Slye and Scurry were engaged in
smuggling tobacco duty-free into England by means of the re-export device;
that is, they registered their cargo and paid duty on it at an English port of
entry, then reclaimed the duty by re-exporting the tobacco to the nearby
Isle of Man— technically a foreign territory— whence it could be run with
ease into either England or Ireland. "We could work their ruin as well, by
deposing against them the minute we land. What a victory for Lord
Baltimorel"

Ebenezer shook his head in awe, '

"Well, come now!" his friend cried after a moment, "Surely thou'rt not
afraid? Thou'rt not so distraught about this idle impostor?"

"To speak truly, I am distraught on his account, Henry. Tis not that he
improves his state at my expense— had he robbed me, I'd be nothing much
alarmed. But he hath robbed me of myself; he hath poached upon my very
being! I cannot permit it/'

"Oh la," scoffed Burlingame. "Thou'rt talking schoolish tot What is this
coin, thy self, and how hath he possessed it?"

Ebenezer reminded his friend of their first colloquy in the carriage from
London, wherein he had laid open the nature of his double essence as
virgin and poet— that essence the realization of which, after his rendezvous
with Joan Toast, had brought him into focus, if not actually into being,
and the preservation and assertion of which was therefore his cardinal value,
"Ne'er again shall I flee from myself, or in anywise disguise it/' he
concluded. " Twas just such cowardice caused my shame this morning, and
like an omen 'twas only my return to this true self that brought me through.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 205 ]

I was cleansed by songs unborn and passed those anxious hours with the
muse/'

Burlingame confessed his inability to grasp the metaphor, and so the
poet explained in simple language that he had used four blank pages of
his notebook to clean himself with and had filled another two with sea-
poetry.

"I swore then never to betray myself again, Henry: 'twas only my sur-
prise allowed this last deception. Should Slye and Scurry come upon us
now, I'd straightway declare my true identity."

"And straightway take a bullet in thy silly head? Thou'rt a fool!"

"I am a poet/' Ebenezer replied, mustering his failing courage, "Let
him who dares deny it! Besides which, even were there no impostor to
confront, 'twould yet be necessary to cross on the Poseidon: all my verses
name that vessel." He opened his notebook to the morning's work. "Hear
this, now:

"Let Ocean roar his damnedest Gale:
Our Planks shan't leak; our Masts shan't fail.
With great Poseidon at our Side
He seemeth neither wild nor wide.

"Morphides would spoil the meter, to say nothing of the conceit."

"The conceit is spoiled already," Burlingame said sourly. "The third line
puts you overboard, and the last may be read as well to Poseidon as to
Ocean. As for the meter, there's naught to keep you from preserving the
name Poseidon though you're sailing on the Morphides"

"Nay, 'twere not the same," Ebenezer insisted, a little hurt by his
friend's hostility. " 'Tis the true and only Poseidon I describe:

44 A noble Ship, from Deck to Peaks,
Akin to those that Homers Greeks
SaiVd east to Troy in Days of Yore,
As we saiVd now to MARYLANDS Shore."

'Thou'rt sailing west," Burlingame observed, even more sourly. "And
the Poseidon is a rat's nest"

"Still greater cause for me to board her," the poet declared in an injured
tone, "else I might describe her wrongly."

"Fogh! 'Tis a late concern for fact you plead, is't not? Methinks 'twere
childsplay for you to make Poseidon from the Morphides, if you can make
him from a livery stable."

Ebenezer closed his Notebook and rose to his feet. "I know not why

[ 206 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

thou'rt set on injuring me," he said sadly. " Tis your prerogative to flout
Lord Baltimore's directive, but will you scorn our friendship too, to have
your way? Tis not as if I'd asked you to go with me— though Heav'n
knows I need your guidance! But Coode or no Coode, I will have it out
with this impostor and sail to Maryland on the Poseidon: if you will pursue
your reckless plot at any cost adieu, and pray God we shall meet again at
Maiden,"

Burlingame at this appeared to relent somewhat: though he would not
abandon his scheme to sail with Slye and Scurry, he apologized for his
acerbity and, finding Ebenezer equally resolved to board the Poseidon,
he bade him warm, if reluctant, farewell and swore he had no mind to
flout his orders from Lord Baltimore.

"Whate'er I do, I do with you in mind," he declared. "Tis Coode's
plot against you I must thwart. Think not I'll e'er forsake you, Eben: one
way or another I'll be your guide and savior."

"Till Maiden, then?" Ebenezer asked with great tears in his eyes.

"Till Maiden," Burlingame affirmed, and after a final handshake the
poet passed through the pantry and out the rear door of the King OT the
Seas, in great haste lest the fleet depart without him.

Luckily he found the shallop at its pier, making ready for another trip*
Not until he noticed Burlingame's chest among the other freight aboard
did he remember that he had posed as a manservant to the Laureate, and
repellent as was the idea of maintaining the deception, he realized with a
sigh that it would be folly now to reveal his true identity, for the ensuing
debate could well cause him to miss the boat

"Hi, there!" he called, for the old man was slipping oS the mooring-
lines. "Wait for me!"

"Aha, 'tis the poet's young dandy, is it?" said the man Joseph, who stood
in the stern. "We had near left ye high and dry."

Breathing hard from his final sprint along the dock, Ebenezer boarded
the shallop. "Stay," he ordered. "Make fast your lines a moment"

"Nonsense!" laughed the sailor. "We're late as't is!"

But Ebenezer declared, to the great disgust of father and son alike, that
he had made an error before, which he now sincerely regretted: in his
eagerness to serve his master he had mistaken Captain Coode's trunk for
the one committed to his charge. He would be happy to pay feny-fxaght
on it anyway, since they had been at the labor of loading it aboard; but the
trunk must be returned to the pier before Captain Coode learned of the
matter.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [207]

" Tis an indulgent master will suffer such a fool to serve him/' Joseph
observed; but nevertheless, with appropriate grunts and curses the transfer
was effected, and upon receipt of an extra shilling apiece by way of gratuity,
the ferrymen cast off their lines once more— the old man going along as
well this trip, for the wind had risen somewhat since early afternoon. The
son, Joseph, pushed off from the bow with a pole, ran up the jib to luff in
the breeze, close-hauled and sheeted home the mainsail, and went forward
again to belay the jib sheet; his father put the tiller down hard, the sails
filled, and the shallop gained way in the direction of the Downs, heeling
gently on a larboard tack. The poets heart shivered with excitement; the
salt wind brought the blood to his brow and made his stomach flutter.
After some minutes of sailing he was able to see the fleet against the lower-
ing sun: half a hundred barks, snows, ketches, brigs, and full-rigged ships
all anchored in a loose cluster around the man-o'-war that would escort
them through pirate-waters to the Virginia Capes, whence they would pro-
ceed to their separate destinations. On closer view the vessels could be seen
bristling with activity: lighters and ferries of every description shuttled from
ship to shore and ship to ship with last-minute passengers and cargo; sailors
toiled in the rigging bending sails to the spars; officers shouted a-low and
aloft,

"Which is the Poseidon?" he asked joyously.

"Yonder, off to starboard/' The old man pointed with his pipestem to a
ship anchored some quarter of a mile away on their right, to windward; the
next tack would bring them to her. A ship of perhaps two hundred tons,
broad of bow and square of stern, fo'c'sle and poop high over the main
deck, fore, main, and mizzen with yards and topmasts all, the Poseidon
was not greatly different in appearance from the other vessels of her class
in the fleet: indeed, if anything she was less prepossessing. To the seasoned
eye her frayed halyards, ill-tarred shrouds, rusty chain plates, "Irish pen-
nants," and general slovenliness bespoke old age and careless usage. But
to Ebenezer she far outshone her neighbors. "Majesticl" he exclaimed, and
scarce could wait to board her. When at last they completed the tack and
made fast alongside, he scrambled readily up the ladder— a feat that would
as a rule have been beyond him— and saluted the deck officer with a cheery
good day.

"May I enquire your name, sir?" asked that worthy.

"Indeed," the poet replied, bowing slightly. "I am Ebenezer Cooke, Poet
and Laureate of the Province of Maryland. My passage is already hired."

[208] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

The officer beckoned to a pair of husky sailors standing nearby, and
Ebenezer found both his arms held fast.

"What doth this mean?" he cried. Everyone on the Poseidon's deck
turned to watch the scene.

"Let us test whether he can swim as grandly as he lies/' the officer said.
"Throw the wretch o'er the side, boys/'

"Desist!" the poet commanded. "I shall have the Captain flog the lot of
you! I am Ebenezer Cooke, I said; by order of Lord Baltimore Poet and
Laureate of Maryland!"

"I see/' said the officer, smiling uncordially. "And hath His Laureateship
anyone to vouch for his identity? Surely the gentlemen and ladies among
the passengers must know their Laureatel"

"Of course I can bring proof," said Ebenezer, "though it seems to me

'tis you should bear the burden! I have a friend ashore who " He

stopped, recalling Burlingame's disguise.

"Who will swear to't through his teeth, for all you've bribed him/' de-
clared the officer.

"He lies," said the young man Joseph from the shallop, who had climbed
aboard behind Ebenezer. "He told me he was a servant of the Laureate's,
and now I doubt e'en that. What servant would pretend to be his master,
when his master's near at hand?"

"Nay, you mistake me!" Ebenezer protested. "The man who calls him-
self Ebenezer Cooke is an impostor, I swear't! Fetch the knave out, that
I may look him in the eye and curse him for a fraud!"

"He is in his cabin writing verse," the officer replied, "and shan't be
bothered/' To the sailors he said, "Throw him o'er the side and be damned
to him."

"Stay! Stay!" Ebenezer shrieked. He wished with all his heart he were at
the King o' the Seas with Burlingame. "I can prove the man's deceiving
you! I have a commission from Lord Baltimore himself!"

"Then prithee show it," the officer invited with a smil^ "and I shall
throw the other wight o'er the side instead."

"Dear God!" the poet groaned, the facts dawning on him* "I have mis-
laid it! Belike 'tis in my chest somewhere, below."

"Belike it is, since the chest is Mr. Cooke's. In any case 'tis not mislaid,
for I have seen it— the Laureate produced it on request by way of voucher.
Toss the lout over!"

But Ebenezer, realizing his predicament, fell to his knees on the deck
and embraced the officer's legs. "Nay, I pray you, do not drown me! I own

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 209 ]

I sought to fool you, good masters, but 'twas only a simple prank, a mere
April Foolery. I am the Laureate's servant, e'en as this gentleman
affirmed, and have the Laureate's notebook here to prove it. Take me to
my master, I pray you, and I shall beg his pardon. Twas but a simple
prank, I swear!"

"What say yey sir?" asked one of the sailors.

"He may speak truly/' the officer allowed, consulting a paper in his hand.
"Mr. Cooke hired passage for a servant, but brought none with him from
the harbor/'

"Methinks he's but a rascally adventurer," said Joseph.

"Nay, I jjwear't!" cried the poet, remembering that Burlingame had hired
berths that morning for Ebenezer and himself in the guise of the servant
Bertrand. "I am Bertrand Burton of St. Giles in the Fields, masters— Mr.
Cooke's man, and his father's!"

The officer considered the matter for a moment. "Very well, send him
below instead, till his master acknowledges him."

For all his misery Ebenezer was relieved: it was his plan to stay aboard
at any cost, for once under way, he reasoned, he could press his case until
they were persuaded of his true identity and the mysterious stranger's
imposture.

"Ah God, I thank thee, sir!"

The sailors led him toward the fo'c'sle.

"Not at all," the officer said with a bow. "In an hour we shall be at sea,
and if your master doth not own you, 'twill be a long swim home."

11 : DEPARTURE FROM ALBION: THE LAUREATE AT SEA

THUS IT HAPPENED THAT NOT LONG AFTERWARDS, WHEN ANCHORS WERE

weighed and catted, buntlines cast off, sails unfurled, and sheets, halyards,
and braces belayed, and the Poseidon was sea-borne on a broad reach past
The Lizard, Ebenezer was not on hand to witness the spectacle with the
gentlemen of the quarter-deck,, but lay disconsolate in a fo'c'sle hammock-
alone, for the crew was busy above. The officer's last words were frightening
enough, to be sure, but he no longer really wished he were back in the King
o' the Seas. There was a chance, of course, that the impostor could not be
intimidated, but surely as a last resort he'd let the genuine Laureate pose

[ 210 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

as his servant rather than condemn him to drown; and Ebenezfer saw noth-
ing but certain death in Burlingame's daring scheme. All things considered,
then, he believed his course of action was really rather prudent, perhaps
the best expedient imaginable under the circumstances; had he acquiesced
to it at Burlingame's advice, and were his friend at hand to lend him moral
support in the forthcoming interview, he might still have been fearful but
he'd not have been disconsolate. The thing that dizzied him, brought
sweat to his palms,, and shortened his breath was that he alone had elected
to board the Poseidon, to pose as Bertrand Burton, to declare to the officer
his real identity, and finally to repudiate the declaration and risk his life to
reach Maiden. He heard the rattling of the anchor chain, the scamper of
feet on the deck above his head, the shouted commands of the mate, the
chanteys of the crew on the lines; he felt the ship heel slightly to larboard
and gain steerage-way, and he was disconsolate— very nearly ill again, as in
his room that final night in London.

Presently an aged sailor climbed halfway down the companionway into
the fo'c'sle— a toothless, hairless, flinty-eyed salt with sunken cheeks* color-
less lips, yellow-leather skin, and a great sore along the side of his nose,

"Look alive, laddie!" he chirped from the ladder. "The Captain wants
ye on the poop."

Ebenezer sprang readily from the hammock, his notebook still clutched
in his hand, and failing to allow for the incline of the deck, crashed heavily
against a nearby bulkhead.

"Whoa! 'Sheart!" he muttered.

"Hee hee! Step lively, son!"

"What doth the Captain wish of me?" the poet asked, steadying himself
at the foot of the ladder. "Can it be he realizes who I am, and what
indignities I suffer?"

"Belike he'll have ye keelhauled," the old man cackled, and fetched
Ebenezer a wicked pinch upon his cheek, so sharp it made the tears come.
"We've barnacles enough to take the hide off a dog shark* Come along
with ye!"

There was nothing for it but to climb the ladder to the main deck and
follow his comfortless guide aft to the poop. There stood the Captain, a
florid, beardless, portly fellow, jowled and stern as any Calvinist, but with a
pink of debauchery in both his eyes, and wet red lips that would have
made Arminius frown.

Ebenezer, rubbing his injured cheek, observed a general whispering
among the gentlemen on the quarter-deck as he passed, and hung his head

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 211 ]

When he stepped up on the ladderway to the poop, the old sailor caught
him by the coat and pulled him back.

"Hold, there! The poop deck's not for the likes of you!"

"Good enough, Ned," said the Captain, waving him off.

"What is't you wish, sir?" Ebenezer asked.

"Nothing/' The Captain looked down at him with interest. "Tis Mr.
Cooke, thy master, wants to see ye, not I. D'ye still say thou'rt his man?"

"Aye."

"Ye know what sometimes happens to stowaways?"

Ebenezer glanced at the sky darkening with evening to the east and
storm clouds to the west, the whitecapped water, and the fast-receding rocks
of England. His heart chilled.

"Aye."

"Take him to my cabin," the Captain ordered Ned. "But mind ye knock
ere ye enter: Mr. Cooke is busy rhyming verses."

Ebenezer was impressed: he would not himself have dared to request
such a privilege. Whoever this impostor was, he had the manner of the rank
he claimedl

The sailor led him by the sleeve to a companionway at the after end of
the quarter-deck which opened to the captain's quarters under the poop.
They descended a short ladder into what appeared to be a chart-room, and
old Ned rapped on a door leading aft.

"What is it?" someone inside demanded. The voice was sharp, self-
confident, and faintly annoyed: certainly not the voice of a man fearful of
exposure. Ebenezer thought again of the dark sea outside and shivered:
there was not a chance of reaching shore.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Cooke," Ned pleaded, clearly intimidated
himself, "I have the wretch here that says he is your servant, sir: the one
that tried to tell us he was you, sir."

"Aha! Send him in and leave us alone," said the voice, as if relishing the
prospect. All thought of victory fled the poet's mind: he resolved to ask no
more than mercy from the man— and possibly a promise to return, when
they reached Maryland, that commission from Lord Baltimore, which some-
how or other the impostor had acquired. And maybe an apology, for it
was, after all, a deuced humiliation he was suffering!

Ned opened the door and assisted Ebenezer through with another cruel
pinch, this time on the buttock, and an evil laugh. The poet jumped
involuntarily; again his eyes watered, and his knees went weak when Ned
closed the door behind him. He found himself in a small but handsomely

[ 212 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

furnished cabin in the extreme rear of the vessel. The floor was carpeted;
the Captain's bed, built into one wall, was comfortably clothed in clean
linen. A large brass oil lamp, already lit, swung gently from the ceiling and
illuminated a great oak table beneath. There was even a glass-fronted book-
case, and oil portraits in the style of Titian, Rubens, and Correggio were
fastened with decorative brass bolts around the walls. The impostor,
dressed in Burlingame's port-purple coat and sporting a campaigner wig,
stood with his back to the poet at the far wall— actually the stem of the
ship— staring through small leaded windowpanes at the Poseidon's wake.
Satisfied that Ned was gone, Ebenezer rushed around the table and fell to
his knees at the other man's feet.

"Dear, dear sir!" he cried, not daring to look up, "Believe me, I've no
mind at all to expose your disguise! No mind at all, sir! I know full well how
you came by your clothing in the stable of the King o* the Seas and fooled
the ferryman Joseph and his father at the wharf— though how in Heaven
you got my Lord Baltimore's commission, that he wiote for me in his own
hand not a week past, I cannot fathom/'

The impostor, above him, made a small sound and backed away.

"But no matter! Think not I'm wroth, or mean to take revenge! I ask no
more than that you let me pose as your servant on this ship, nor shall I
breathe a word oft to a soul, you may depend on'tl What would it profit
you to see me drown? And when we land in Maryland, why, IT! bring no
charge against you, but call it quits and think no more oft Nay, HI g#
thee a place at Maiden, my estate^ or pay your fare to a neighboring
province "

Glancing up at this last to see what effect his plea was having, he stopped
and said no more. The blood drained from his face.

"Nay!" He sprang to his feet and leaped at the impostor, who barely
escaped to the other side of the round oak table. His campaigner, however,
fell to the floor, and the light from the lamp fell Ml on Bertiand Burton
—the real Bertrand, whom Ebenezer had last seen in bis room in Pndding
Lane when he left it to seek a notebook at the Sign of the Raven.

JGod! F God!" He could scarcely speak for rage,

"Prithee, Master Ebenezer, sir * The voice was Bertrand's voice,

formidable no more. Ebenezer lunged again, but the servant kept the table
between them.

"You'd watch me drown! Let me crawl to you for mere?!"
"Prithee — "

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR 213

"Wretch! Only let me lay hands on that craven neck, to wring it like a
capon's! We'll see who drinks salt water!"

"Nay, prithee, master! I meant thee no ill, I swear't! I can explain all
of it, every part! Dear God, I never dreamed 'twas you they'd caught, sir!
Think ye I'd see ye suffer, that e'er was such a gentle master? I, that was
your blessed father's trusty friend and adviser for years? Why, I'd take a
flogging ere I'd let 'em lay a hand on ye, sir!"

"Flogging you shall have right soon, i'faith!" the poet said grimly, re-
versing his field in vain from clockwise to counterclockwise. "Nor shall that
be the worst oft, when I catch you!" '

"Do but let me say, sir "

"Hi! I near had thee then!"

" — 'twas through no fault of mine "

"Aft/ You knave, hold still!"

"•—but bad rum and a treacherous woman "

"'Sheart! But when I have thee "

" — and who's really to blame, sir "

"—I shall flog that purple coat from off thy back "

"—is your sister Anna's beau!"

The chase ended. Ebenezer leaned across the table into the lamplight,
brighter now for the gathering dark outside.

"What is't I heard you say?" he asked carefully.

"I only said, sir, what commenced this whole affair was the pound ster-
ling your sister and her gentleman friend presented me with in the post-
house, when I had fetched your baggage there."

"I shall cut thy lying tongue from out thy head!"

"Tis true as Scripture, sir, I sweartl" Bertrand said, still moving warily
as Ebenezer moved.

"You saw them there together? Impossible!"

"God smite me dead if I did not, sir: Miss Anna and some gentleman
with a beard, that she called Henry."

"Dear Heav'n!" the poet muttered as if to himself. "But you called him
her beau, Bertrand?"

"Well, now, no slur intended, sir; oh, no slur intended at all! I meant
no more by't than that— Ah, sir, you know full well how folks make hasty
judgments, and far be't from me "

"Cease thy prating! What did you see, that made you call him her beau?
No mor£ than cordial conversation?"

"'Sheart, xather more than that, sir! But think not I'm the sort "

[214] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"I know well thou'rt a thief, a liar, and a cheat," Ebenezer snapped
"What is't you saw that set thy filthy mind to work? Eh?"

"I hardly dare tell, sir; thou'rt in such a rage! Who's to say ye'll not
strike me dead, though from first to last I am innocent as a babe?"

"Enough/' the poet sighed, "I know the signs of old. You'll drive me
mad with your digressions and delays until I guarantee your safety. Very
well, I shan't besmirch my hands on you, I promise. Speak plainly, now!"

"They were in each other's arms," the servant said, "and billing and
cooing at a mad rate when I came up with your baggage. When Miss Anna
had sight of me she blushed and tried to compose herself, yet all the while
she and the gentleman spoke to me, they could not for the life of 'em
stand still, but must ever be at sweetmeat and honeybee, and fondle and
squeeze Are you ill, sir?"

Ebenezer had gone pale; he slumped into the Captain's chair and
clutched his head in his hands. " Tis nothing."

"Well, as I said, sir, they could not keep their hands *

"Finish thy story if you must," Ebenezer broke in, "but speak no more
of those two, as you prize your wretched life! They paid you, did they?"

"They did in truth, sir, for fetching down your baggage,"

"But a pound? Tis rather a princely reward for the task."

"Ah, now, sir, I am after all an old and trusted " He stopped half-
way through the sentence, so fierce was the look on Ebetiezer's face. "Be-
sides which," he concluded, "now I see hov/t strikes ye, 'tis likely they wished
me to say naught of what I'd seen. I tell yey sir, 'tis not for much I'd have
missed your setting out! Had not Miss Anna and her gentleman insisted
that I leave at once "

"Spare me thy devotion," Ebenezer said. "What did you then,, and why
did you pose as me? Speak fast, ere I fetch the Captain."

" 'Tis a tragic tale, sir, that shames me in the telling. I beg ye keep in
mind I'd never have presumed, sir, save that I was distracted and possessed
by grief at your arrest and in direst peril of my life,"

"My arrest!"

"Aye, sir, in the posthouse. Tis a mystery to me yet how tbou'rt free>
and how you came so rapidly from London."

Ebenezer smacked his hand upon the table. "Speak English, man!
Straight English sentences a man can follow!"

"Very well, sir," Bertrand said. "I shall begin at the beginning, if yell
bear with me." So saying, he took the liberty of sitting at the Captain's
table, facing Ebenezer, and with a full complement of moralizing asides

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [215]

and other commentary, delivered himself during the next half hour of the
following story:

" Twas a double grief I carried from the posthouse in my heart, sir, in-
asmuch as I had lost the gentlest, kindliest master that ever poor servingman
served, and could not even ckim the privilege of seeing him off to Plym-
outh in his coach, and wishing him a last Godspeed. Therefore I sought

a double physic for't. With the pound Miss Anna and her What I mean

to say, sir, I hied me to a winehouse near, at hand and drank a deal of
rackpunch, that the rogue of a barman had laced with such poisonous mo-
lasses rum I near went blind on the spot. Three glasses served to rob me
of all judgment, yet such was my pain at losing you I drank off seven,
and bought a quart of ratafia besides, for Betsy Birdsall. That is to say, not
all the bottled spirits in London could restore my own, and so at length
I fled for comfort back to Pudding Lane, to your rooms, sir. Yet well I
knew they'd seem so vacant with ye gone, 'twould but increase tenfold my
pain to sit alone, and for that cause I stopped belowstairs to summon
Betsy Birdsall— ye recall the chambermaid, sir, that had the unnatural hus-
band and the fetching laugh? We climbed the stairs together, and 'sheart!
so far from vacant,, your rooms were fit to burst with men, sir! A wight
named Bragg there was, that looked nor manlier than my Betsy's husband,
and a half-a-dozen sheriff's bullies with him; 'twas you they sought, sir,
with some false tale of a ledger-book— I ne'er made rhyme nor sense of tl

"Directly they spied me a shout went up, and they were that bent on
justice, I feared for Betsy's honor at their hands. At length I told them, in
answer to their queries, my master was at the posthouse, and off they ran

to catch ye • Nay, look not thus, sirl 'Tis not as ye think, I swear't! Not

for a moment would I have breathed the truth, had I not known your
coach was some time gone— rather would I have suffered death itself, or
prison, at their hands! But well I knew 'twas a wild-goose chase they chased,
and good riddancel

"We turned to't then, the wench and I, and with her her ratafia and me
my rum we lacked no fire to warm the sheets withal, and were that tired
when we had done, that though 'twas brightest day we slept some hours
in sweat, sack a sack. Anon I knew, by certain signs, my mount was fresh
and restless for the jumps; yet for a time I feigned to slumber on. (The
truth oft is, though the girl and I are twins in will and skill, I've twice her
years and half her strength, and more than once have cantered willy-nilly
when I yearned to walk.) There were these signs, I say, that I'd have naught
of, till Betsy made a moan and dived head foremost 'neath the covers. The

[ 2l6 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

cause wherefor I saw at once in opening my eyes, for 'twas not her hands
were on me after all, but the hands of Mister Trentice-Clerk himself,
the winehouse fiddler! Aye, I swear't, 'twas that same Ralph Birdsall,
Betsy's husband, that erst was wont to leave his field unplowed, but since
I seeded it had grown such a jealous farmer he looked to's plot five times
a day. He had come home to run another furrow, like as not, and on ad-
vice from one below— the cook's boy Tim, that long himself had leched
for Betsy—he stole upstairs to find us.

" 'Sblood, 'twas a murtherous moment, sir! I had like to smirch me for
very fright, and waited only for knife or ball. Betsy likewise, albeit her
head was buried like the ostrich's, showed great alarm: 'twas writ all over
her hinder part. Yet Birdsall himself seemed no less racked: he shivered
like a yawning cat and drew his breath unnaturally. Nor was't in wrath
his hands lay on me, as I soon saw. Great tears coursed down his cheeks,
the which were smooth as any girl's; he sniffed and bit his underlip, yet
would not speak nor smite me down.

" 'Out on't!' I cried at last. 'Here I lie, and there lies thy wife, right
roundly rogered: ye have caught us fair enough. Then make an end on't,
sir, or get thee hence!7 He then composed himself and said, that though
'twas in his rights to slay the twain of us, yet he had no taste for bloodshed
and loved his wife besides. The horns were on his brow, he said, nor
could his short-sword poll him. Moreover, he declared that in bedding
Betsy I had bedded him, forasmuch as marriage made them one; and on
this ground averred, that whate'er Betsy felt for me, he could but feel
the same— in short, to the degree I was her lover, I was his as well, and
this in the eyes of God Himself!

"Now all this Jesuitry I heard amazed, yet was right glad to remain
unpunctured, and I made bold to put him in mind of that ancient and
consoling verity, None save the mttol knows he is no cuckold. On hearing
which, the wretch straightway embraced me, and de'il I had no taste for%
'twas give him his head or lose my own. Betsy meanwhile, on hearing how
the wind blew, soon calmed her shivering hams and, throwing off the covers,
cried she had no mind to play Rub-a-dub-dub nor could she fathom how
such a bedful of women had ever got her with child. At this Ralph Birdsall
gave a mighty start and in a trembling tone enquired, was't he or I had got
the child? Whereupon my Betsy cried, * 'Twas he! 'Twas my sweet Ber-
trand!' Methought I was betrayed and cursed her for a liar; to Ralph I swore
I'd ne'er laid hands on Betsy till a fortnight past, nor swived her till a good
week after, whereas the child was three months in her belly if he was a

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 21J ]

day. 'He lies!' swore Betsy; *I swear'tf swore I. 'Nay!' swore she. "Tis full
six months I've been his whore, that had no husband to wife me! A hun-
dred times hath he climbed and sowed me, till I am full as a full-corned
goose of him!' Ralph Birdsall then fetched out his sword, that, clerk
or no, he boasted always at his hip. The truth!7 he cried, and shook all
over as with an ague. I still took Betsy for a traitor, and so declared, * Tore
God thy wife's a hellish liar, sir, but nonetheless she is no whore. May
I fry in Hell if the child is any man's but yours/

"Alas! What man can say he knows his fellow man? Who'd not have
sworn, when at last I quite persuaded Birdsall, 'twould soften his wrath—
the more for that 'twas not his horns that galled him? Yet when I'd said
my piece and he Amen'd it, he drew himself up and scowled a fearsome
scowl. Whore!' he cried at Betsy, and with the flat of his sword he fetched
her a swingeing clap athwart her seat. Nor stopped he there, but made
to run me through, and 'twas only the nimblest of legs that saved my
neck. I snatched up my breeches and dashed for the door, with the fiddler
in hot career behind, nor durst I stop to cover my shame till I was half
a square before him — Better lose pride than hide, sir, as they say. As for
my tatling Betsy, the last I saw her she was springing hither and yon
about the room, sir,, hands on her buttocks and hollowing like a hero,
nor have I seen her since. The truth oft was, as I guessed later, the
babe in Betsy's belly was the fiddler's claim to manhood, so long as he
thought himself the father; it took no more than discovering us rem in rem
to quite undo him. Twas only to save me the wench gave out the truth,
and 'sblood! I cut my throat to call her false, for albeit the cuckold lost
my trail, he'd vowed to hound me to the earth's ends and poll that horn
wherewith himself was horned!

"There was naught for it then but I must flee; yet I had but three pound
in my breeches, nor dared return for clothes or savings. I summoned a
boy who happened through the alley where I hid and sent him with the
money for shirt, hose, and shoes; then for an hour I prowled the streets,
debating what to do.

"By merest chance my way led to the posthouse, at sight of which I
could not but weep to think of your straits,, that were but little happier
than my own. 'Twas here I hit upon my plan, sir, whereof the substance
was, that though 'twas past my power to help ye, yet in your misery ye
might ransom me. That is to say, ye'd bought your passage to Maryland
and could not sail; who knew but what ye'd bought your seat to Plym-
outh as well? Think not I planned to cheat thee, sir! 'Twas but to Plymouth

[ 2l8 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

I meant to go, to save my life, and vowed to make ye restitution when
I could. I did not doubt I could play the poet, though de'il the bit I know
of verse, for I've a gift for mime, sir, if I may say so. Aye, many's the hour
at St. Giles I've kept the folk in stitches by 'personating old Mrs. Twigg,
with her crooked walk and her voice like an ironmonger's! And once in
Pudding Lane, sir, I did Ralph Birdsall to such a turn, my Betsy wept
a-laughing, nor could contain herself but let fly on the sheets for very
mirth. The only rub was, should someone challenge me I'd naught where-
with to prove my case. For that reason, though I need not say how much
I loathed to do't, I called for quill and paper in the posthouse, sir, and
as best my memory would serve me I writ a copy of your commission, the
which ye'd showed me ere ye left "

At this point, Ebenezer, who had with the greatest difficulty contained
his mounting astonishment and wrath as Bertrandrs tale unfolded, cried
out, ''Devil take it, man, is there aught of infamy you'd stop at? Steal
passage, take name and rank, and even forge commission! Let me see it!"

" Tis but a miserable approximation, sir," the servant said. "I've little
wit in the matter of language and had no seal to seal it with." He drew
a paper from his coat and proffered it reluctantly, " Twould fool no man,
I'm certain."

"Tis not Lord Baltimore's hand," Ebenezer admitted, scanning the
paper. "But i'faith!" he added on reading it. "The wording is the same,
from first to last! And you say 'twas done from memory? Recite it for me,
then!"

"Marry, sir, I cannot; 'twas some time past."

"The first line, then. Surely you recall the first line oft? No? Then thou'rt
an arrant liar!" He flung the paper to the floor. "Where is my commission,
that you copied this from?"

" Tore God, sir, I do not know."

"And yet you copied from it in the posthouse?"

"Ye force the truth from me, sir," Bertrand said, shamefaced. " Twas in-
deed from the original I copied, and not from memory; neither was it in
the posthouse I did the deed, but in your room, sir, the day ye left. The
commission was on your writing table, where ye'd forgot it; I found it
there as I was packing your trunk, and so moved was I by the grandness
oft I made a copy, thinking to show my Betsy what a master I'd lost
The original I put in your trunk and carried to the posthouse."

"Then why this sneak and subterfuge?" the poet demanded. ""Why did
you not admit it from the start? Thank Heaven the thing's not lost!"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 219 ]

Bertrand made no reply, but scowled more miserably than ever.
'Well? Surely 'tis in my trunk this instant, is't not? Why did you lie?"

"I put the paper in your trunk, sir/' Bertrand said, "on the very top
of all, and fetched your baggage to the posthouse; nor thought I more oft
till the hour I've told of, when, to save my life, I vowed to 'personate my
way to Plymouth. Then I recalled my copy and luckily found it where it
had been since the hour I forged it— folded in quarters in my pocket. To
try myself I marched into the posthouse, and to the first wight I met I said,
Tm Ebenezer Cooke, my man, Poet and Laureate of die Province of
Maryland: please direct me to the Plymouth coach/"

"The brassl"

Bertrand shrugged: the Burlingamelike gesture was the more startling
performed as it was in Burlingame's port-purple coat. "Twas daring
enough," he admitted. "The fellow only stared and mumbled something
about the coach being gone. I feared he saw through my imposture, and
the more when a stout fierce fellow in black came up behind and said,
Thou'rt the poet Cooke, ye say? Thou'rt a knave and liar, for the poet
Cooke they fetched to jail not two hours past/ "

"To jail!" Ebenezer cried. "What is this talk of jail, man, that ye return
to here again?"

" 'Twas what Fd feared, sir: that wretch named Bragg, that would have
the law on ye for some false matter of a ledger-book. 'Twas only inasmuch
as I knew ye were past rescue, as I say, sir, that I presumed to use your
passage "

"Stay! Stay! One moment, now!" Ebenezer protested. "There is a mar-
velous discrepancy here!"

"A discrepancy, sir?"

"It wants no barrister to see it," the poet said. "Twas you set Bragg on
my trail, was't not, when you found him in my room? And 'twas only that
you knew I'd be long gone, you said. How is't then "

"Prithee let me finish, sir/' Bertrand pleaded, coloring noticeably. "Tales
are like tarts, that may be ugly on the face of 'em and yet have a worth-
while end. This man, I say, declared ye were in jail— a fearsome fellow,
he was, dressed all in black, with a great black beard, and pistols in his
waist. And not far behind him was another, as like as any twin, which,
when he joined the first, the man I'd queried took fright and ran. As would
have I, but for access of fear."

"They sound like Slye and Scurry!"

"The very same, sir,, they called each other: a pair of sharks as may I

[ 220 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

never meet again! Yet little I knew of 'em then but that they'd challenged
me, and so I said straight out, the man who'd gone to jail was an impostor,
and jailed for his imposture, and I was the real Ebenezer Cooke. To
prove it I displayed my false commission, scarce daring to hope they'd be
persuaded. Yet persuaded they were, and even humbled, as I thought; they
whispered together for a while and then insisted I ride to Plymouth with
them, inasmuch as the regular coach was gone. I took the boon right
readily, fearing any minute to see Ralph Birdsall and his sword "

"And fell into their hands/' Ebenezer said with relish. "By Heav'n,
'tis no more than your desertl"

Bertrand shuddered. "Say not so, sir! Hi, what a pair of fiends! No sooner
were we on the road than their intent came clear: they were lieutenants
of one Colonel Coode of Maryland, that hath designs upon the govern-
ment, and had been sent by him to waylay Eben Cooke— which quany
fearing bagged by other hunters, they were the more ready to believe
me him. What designs they had on you, sir, I could not guess, but certain
'twas not to beg a verse of ye, for they held each a pistol ready, and left
no doubt I was their prisoner. Twas not till Plymouth I escaped; one of
the twain went to see how fared their ship, and the other wandering some
yards off to rouse the stableboy at the King o' the Seas, I leaped round
a corner and burrowed into a pile of hay, where I hid till they gave o'er
the search and went inside for rum."

"Take them no farther," Ebenezer said; "I know the test of their his-
tory. 'Twas in the hay, then, that Burlingame found you?"

"Aye, sir, I heard the sound of people and trembled for my life, the
more for that their footsteps came toward me. Anon I felt a great thrashing
weight upon me, and thinking I was jumped by Slye or Scurry, I gave a
great hollow and grappled as best I could to save my life, Twas the barmaid
from the tavern I found opposing me— coats high, drawers low, and ripe
for rogering— and Miss Anna's beau stood by, laughing mightily at the
combat."

"Enough, enough! How is't you did not know each other, if as you
say you'd seen him at the posthouse?"

"Not know him? I knew him at once, sir and he me, and 'twere hard
to tell which was the more amazed. Yet he asked me nothing of my
business there, but straightway offered to change clothes with me— I dare-
say he feared my telling tales to his Miss Anna "

"Enough/" Ebenezer ordered again.

"No harm intended, sir; no injury meant. In any case I was pleased to

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 221 ]

make the change, not alone in that I had the better of the bargain but
also to escape from Slye and Scurry. Yet I went no farther than the door
of the King o' the Seas ere they spied me from inside and gave chase;
'twas only by hiding behind some baggage on a pier that I eluded them.
Then fancy my amazement, sir, when I saw 'twas your own trunk had
saved me, that I'd packed myself not long before! I knew— alas!— ye were
not there to claim it and so resolved to carry my poor deception one step
farther; to board your ship, sir, with your own commission, and hide till
I deemed it safe to go ashore. To that end, so soon as I was safe aboard
I unlocked your trunk "

'What say you?"

"Ye'd left one key with me in London, what time I packed ye. But
I found the paper gone, sir."

"Gone/ Great heavens, man, whither?"

"Lost, strayed, or stolen, sir," said Bertrand. " Twas on the very top I'd
laid it,, yet now 'twas nowhere in the trunk. I had to use my false commission
instead, which happily convinced 'em for all it had no seal. I told the
Captain to keep watch for my pursuers. The rest ye know."

Ebenezer paced the cabin wildly, his finger ends pressed against his
temples.

"When word came to me that some stranger was aboard that called him-
self the Laureate, then swore he was the Laureate's man," Bertrand con-
cluded, watching his master anxiously, "I durst not leave this room. If t
was Slye or Scurry or Coode himself, I would be murthered on the spot.
I had no choice but to stand here, sick at heart, and watch the ship get
under way. The officer then said I must inspect ye, and so sure was I of
death, I could not turn from the window till I heard your voice. How is't
thou'rt not in jail, sir?"

"Jail!" Ebenezer said with impatience. "I never was in jail!"

"Then who is't took your place? Slye vowed that when he and Scurry
searched the posthouse for ye, they heard on every side of a man who'd
been arrested not ten minutes before and carried off to jail None knew
what crime he'd done, but all knew his name was Eben Cooke,, for the
man had strode about declaring name and rank to the world."

"No doubt a second impostor," the poet replied, "bent on whoring my
office to his purpose. May he rot in irons for ever and aye! As for you, since
'twas not among your plans to make a voyage, you'll sail no farther "

'Te'll have 'em fetch me ashore?" Bertrand went to his knees in grati-

[ 222 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

tilde. "Ah marry, what a place in Heav'n is thine, sitl What an injustice
I did ye, to fear ye'd not have pity on my case!"

"On the contrary; 'tis perhaps the one injustice you did me not."

"Sir?"

Ebenezer turned away to the stern windows. "Twere well to say a
prayer before you rise; I mean you'll swim for't."

"Nay! Twere the end o' me, sir!"

"As't were of me/7 Ebenezer said, "had you not owned "

He stopped short: master and man measured each other for an instant,
then sprang together for the false commission on the floor— which laying
hold of at the same instant, they soon destroyed in their struggle.

"No matter," Ebenezer said. " Twill take but a minute with the twain
of us for any fool to judge which is the poet and which the lying knave/'

"Think better oft!" Bertrand warned. " Tis not my wish to harm ye,
sir, but if it comes to that, there'll be no judgment; I've but to send for
the man that fetched ye here and swear I know ye not."

"What! You'll threaten me too, that have already set the law upon me,
robbed me of name and passage, and well-nigh caused my death? A pretty
fellow!"

For all his wrath, however, Ebenezer was not blind to the uncertainty
of his position; he spoke no more of summoning an officer to judge between
them nor did he further question Bertrand's tale, though several details of
it failed to satisfy him. The valet had declared, for example, that only the
certainty of his master's departure had allowed him with clear conscience
to send Bragg's bullies to the posthouse; yet it was his certainty of Eben-
ezer's arrest that had allowed him, before entering the posthouse again,
to conceive the notion of posing as Laureate* How was this discrepancy
to be accounted for? And how could the commission have disappeared, if
master and servant owned the only keys to the trunk? And what had the
wretch to gain by his lying tale of Anna and Henry together in the post-
house? Or if it were no lie But here his reeling fancy failed him.

"You merit no lenience," he said in a calmer tone, "but so far shall
I let mercy temper justice, I'll speak no more of casting you astern. Haply
'twill be punishment enough to spend the balance of your years in Mary-
land, since you fear it so. For the rest, confess and apologize to the whole
ship's company at once, and let future merit atone for past defect."

"Thou'rt a Solomon for judgment," Bertrand cried, "and a Christian
saint for mercy!"
"Let us go, then, and have done."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 223 ]

"At once, at once, sir," the valet agreed, "if ye think it safe "

"How should it be otherwise?"

"Tis plain, sir," Bertrand explained, "there's more to this post of yours
than meets the eye. I know not what passed 'twixt you and Lord Baltimore,

nor is't my business to enquire what secret cause ye've sworn to further "

Here Ebenezer let forth such a torrent of abuse that his valet had need
to pause before continuing. "All in the world I mean, sir, is that your
common garden laureate is not set upon by knaves and murtherers at every
corner as I have been, nor is't a mere distaste for rhyme, methinks, that
drives this villain Coode to seek ye out. For aught we know he may be
on this ship; certain he's aboard the fleet, and Slye and Scurry as well "

"Nay, not they," Ebenezer said, "but haply Coode." He described Bur-
Kngame's strategem briefly. " 'Twas Henry bought a passage in your name,"
he explained, "and left the scoundrel stranded with the fleet."

" Twill but inflame him more," said Bertrand, "and who knows what
confederates might be with him? Belike he hath a spy on every boat!"

" 'Twere not impossible, from what I've heard of him," Ebenezer ad-
mitted, "But what's the aim of all this talk? Think you to persuade me
into skulking caution and not to tell my office to the world? Is't to weasel
out of penance and confession?"

Bertrand protested vigorously against such misconstruction of his motives.
"Confess I shall," he declared, "right readily, and mark it light penance
for my imposture— which pray recall I practiced for no vicious ends, but
to save that part which makes man man. Yet penance ne'er healed wound,
sir." He went on to praise the bounteous and forgiving nature of his master
and to upbraid himself for repaying kindness with deceit— not forgetting
to justify once more his imposture and to review, apropos of nothing, sun-
dry evidences of the high esteem and confidence in which old Andrew
held him. At length he concluded by maintaining that what he sought
was not mere penance but restitution; some means wherewith to atone
for what humiliation and discomfort his wholly innocent imposture had
occasioned the noblest master poor servingman ever served.

"And what means is't you have in mind?" the poet asked warily.

"Only to risk my life for yours," the valet said. "Whatever the cause you
serve "

"Enough, damn you! I serve the cause of Poetry,, and no other."

"What I meant, sir, is that whatever Lord Baltimore That is to

say "

"'Sblood, then say it!"

[ 224 ] J^E SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Since I have played ye to your hurt," said Bertrand, "let me play ye
to your profit. Let me dare the rascal Coode in your name, sir. If he do
me in, 'twill be my just desert and your salvation; if not, there's always
time for clean confession when we land. What say ye?"

The plan so astonished Ebenezer that he could not at once find language
strong enough to scourge the planner for his effrontery, and— alas!— the
moment till he found his tongue discovered the scheme's unquestionable
merits. The Laureateship was in truth a perilous post— of that he'd proof
enough by now, though u>/iy he'd still small notion; John Coode was un-
deniably aboard the fleet and doubtless wroth at having been duped;
Burlingame, despite his fanciful last assurances, was not on hand to protect
him. Finally and most persuasively, the poet still shuddered at his morning's
escape from Slye and Scurry at the King o* the Seas; only the appearance
of Bertrand in the street had saved his life,

"If 'twill ease your conscience," he said at last, "I cannot say ye nay,
at least for the nonce— 'twill give me time to write some verse below. But
Coode or no Coode, Bertrand, I swear you this: 'tis the last time I'll be any
man whatever save Eben Cooke. D'you hear?"

"Very good, sir/' Bertrand nodded. "Shall I send word to the Captain?"

"Word? Ah, yes— that I'm thy Bertrand, a fop that makes pretense to
glory. Aye, spread the word!"

12: THE LAUREATE DISCOURSES ON GAMES OF
CHANCE AND DEBATES THE RELATIVE GENTILITY OF
VALETS AND POETS LAUREATE. BERTRAND SETS
FORTH THE ANATOMY OF SOPHISTICATION AND
DEMONSTRATES HIS THESIS

WHEN THE POSEIDON, RUNNING BEFORE A FRESH BREEZE FROM THE

northeast, left Lizard Point behind and in company with the rest of the
fleet set her course southwest to the Azores, life on shipboard settled into
its wonted order. The passengers had little or nothing to do: aside from
the three daily messes and, for those who had the ingredients with them,
the intervening teas, the only other event of the normal day was the an-
nouncement of the estimated distance traveled during the past twenty-four
hours. Among the gentlemen a good deal of money changed hands on

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 225 ]

this announcement, and since servants, when idle, can become every bit
as bored as their masters, they too made bets whenever they could afford to.

The wagering, as a rule, was done at the second mess, since the runs
were computed from noon to noon. Upon arising in the morning, every
man sought out some member of the crew, to inquire about the progress
of the night past; all morning the company watched the wind, and finally
made their estimations. At midday the Captain himself mounted the poop
deck, quadrant in hand, and on notice from the first mate that it was
twelve o'clock sharp, made the traditional "noon sight" for longitude; re-
tiring then to his quarters he computed latitude by dead reckoning from
the compass course and the estimated distance run since the last measured
elevation of the polestar before dawn—which crucial figure was itself reck-
oned from data in the ship's log concerning the direction and velocity of
the wind, the height and direction of the seas, and the making, taking in,
and setting of the sails,, together with the Captain's own knowledge of the
direction and velocity of ocean currents in the general area at that particular
time of year, and of the ability of each of his officers to get the most
out of the men on his watch and the ship itself. Since even under full
sail the Poseidon rarely made more than six miles per hour and never more
than eight— in other words, a fast walk— the daily run could be anything
from zero, given a calm (or, given stormy headwinds, even a negative
quantity), up to one hundred ninety-two miles—which theoretical maxi-
mum, however, she never managed to attain. Having computed latitude and
longitude, the Captain was able to plot the Poseidon's estimated position
on his chart with parallel rule and dividers and, again allowing for winds,
currents, the leeway characteristics of his vessel, and compass variation,
he could give the helmsman a corrected course to steer until further notice.
Finally he would enter the main cabin for his midday meal with the ladies
and gentlemen among his passengers, who in the meantime had pooled
their wagers and their estimates and, after announcing the official figure,
he would bid the mate search out the closest approximation from among
the folded bits of paper and identify the winner of the day.

The basic gamble was the pool— five to ten shillings a head, usually, for
the gentlemen and ladies; a shilling or less for the servants— but the more
ambitious speculators soon contrived a variety of side bets: a maximum
or minimum figure, for example, could be adjusted for virtually any odds
desired, or one could gamble on a maximum or minimum differential be-
tween each day's run and the next one. As the five days passed and boredom
increased, the sport grew more elaborate, the stakes higher: one really im-

[226] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

aginative young minister named George Tubman, suspected by the other
passengers of being a professional gambler in disguise, devised a sliding-
odds system for accepting daily bets on the date of raising Flores and Corvo
—the westerly isknds of the Azores— a system whereby the announcement
of each day's run altered the standing odds against each projected date-
of-landfall according to principles best known to the clever young man
who computed them, and one could in the light of each day's progress
make new wagers to reinforce or compensate for the heightened or dimin-
ished probability of one's previous wagers on the same event. This system
had the advantages of cumulative interest and a tendency towards
geometrically increasing stakes, for when a man saw his whole previous
speculative investment imperiled by an unusually long or short day's run,
he was naturally inclined to cover himself by betting, on what now seemed
a more promising date, an amount equal to or exceeding the sum of his
prior wagers; and since, of course, each day brought the Poseidon closer
to a landfall and narrowed the range of speculation, the odds on the most
likely dates lowered sharply, with the result that a man might invest five
pounds at the going odds on a currently popular date in order to cover ten
shillings previously wagered on a now unlikely one, only to find two or three
days later that a third, much larger, bet was required to make good
the second, or the first and second combined, and so forth. The excitement
grew proportionately; even the Captain, though he shook his head at the
ruinous size of the stakes, followed the betting with unconcealed interest,
and the crew members themselves, who, of course, would not have been
permitted to join in the game even if they could have afforded it, adopted
favorites among the bettors, gave, or when possible sold, "confidential" in-
formation on the ship's progress to interested parties, made private little
wagers of their own on which of the passengers would win the most money,
and ultimately, in order to protect their own bets, volunteered or accepted
bribes to convey false information to bettors other than the one on whom
their money was riding.

For his part, Ebenezer wasted little interest at the outset on this activity,
to which his attention had been called early in the first week of the voyage.
One sparkling April morning Bertrand had approached him where he stood
happily in the bow watching seagulls dive for fish, and had asked, in a
respectful tone, his general opinion of gambling. In good spirits because
of the weather and a commendable breakfast, and pleased to be thus con-
sulted, Ebenezer had explored the subject cheerfully and at length.

'To ask a man what he thinks of gambling is as much as to ask him what

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 227 ]

he thinks of life/' was one of the positions he experimented with. "Doth
not the mackerel gamble, each time he rises, that yonder gulls won't snatch
him up, and the gulls make wager that they will? Are we not gamblers
all, that match wits with the ocean on this ship of wood? Nay, life itself
is but a lifelong gamble, is't not? From the moment of conception our
life is on the line; every meal, every step, every turning is a dare to death;
all men are the fools of chance save the suicide, and even he must wager
that there is no Hell to fry in. Who loves life, then, perforce loves gambling,
for he is Dame Chance's conquest. Moreover, every gambler is an optimist,
for no man wagers who thinks to lose."

Bertrand beamed. 'Then ye favor games of chance?"

"Ah, ah/' the Laureate cautioned. He cocked his head, waggled a fore-
finger, and quoted a proverb which unaccountably made him blush: "There
are more ways to the woods than one. It could as well be argued that the
gambler is a pessimistic atheist, inasmuch as he counts man's will as naught.
To wager is to allow the sovereignty of chance in all events, which is
as much as to say, God hath no hand in things."

"Then ye don't look kindly on't after all?"

"Stay, not so fast: one could as readily say the contrary— that your
Hobbesian materialist should never be a gambler, for no man gambles
that doth not believe in luck, and to believe in luck is to deny blind chance
and cold determinism, as well as the materialist order of things. Who
says Yea to Luck, in short, had as well say Yea to God, and conversely."

"In Heav'n's name, then!" Bertrand cried, rather less respectfully than
at first. "What do ye think of gambling— yea or nay?"

But Ebenezer would not be pressed. " Tis one of those questions that
have many sides," he said blithely, and by way of indicating that, for the
present at least, he'd nothing farther to say on the subject turned his atten-
tion again to the gulls: Contrary to his expectations,, his position aboard
the Poseidon was turning out to be by no means altogether unpleasant.
He had contrived to establish himself as being not another common servant
but a kind of amanuensis to the Laureate, in which capacity he was per-
mitted access to the quarter-deck at Bertrand's side and limited converse
with the gentlemen; there was no need to conceal his education, since
positions of the sort he pretended to were frequently filled by destitute
scholars, and by making Bertrand out to be the lofty, taciturn variety of
genius, he hoped to be able to speak for him more often than not and
thus protect their disguise. Moreover, he could devote as much time as
he chose to his notebook and even borrow books from the gentlemen pas-

f 228 ] THE. SOT-WEED FACTOR

sengers without arousing suspicion; an amanuensis was expected to busy
himself with ink, paper, and books, especially when his employer was a poet
laureate. In short, it became ever more clear to him as the voyage progressed
that his role offered most of the privileges of his true identity and none of
the dangers, and he counted the disguise among his happiest inspirations.
While the servants relieved their ennui with gambling and gossip about
their masters and mistresses, and the ladies and gentlemen with gambling
and gossip about one another, Ebenezer passed the hours agreeably in the
company of his own work or that of celebrated authors of the past, with
whom, since his commission, he felt a strong spiritual kinship.

Indeed, the only thing he really found objectionable, once his initial
embarrassment was forgotten and he had grown accustomed to his position,
was mealtimes. For one thing, the food was not what he had imagined: the
last entry in his notebook, made just before he fell asleep in the stable
of the King o' the Seas, had been:

You ask, What eat our merry Band
En Route to lovely MARYLAND?
I answer. Ne'er were such Delights
As met our Sea-sharp* d Appetites
E'er serv'd to Jove and Junos Breed
By Vulcan and by Ganymede*

To which, during his very first day as Bertrand's amanuensis, he had ap-
pended:

The Finest from two Hemispheres,
From roasted Beef to Quarter1 d Deers;
The Best of new and antick Worlds,
Fine curry7 d Lamb and basted Squirrek.
We wash'd all down with liquid cheer —
Barbados Rum and English Beer.
'Twere vain to seek a nobler Feast
In legend' d West or story' d East,
Than this our plenteous Shipboard Store
Provided fey LORD BALTIMORE,

This even though he had in fact seen nothing at either breakfast or dinner
more exotic than eggs, fresh veal, and a few indifferently prepared vegetables.
But three days sufficed to exhaust the Poseidon's store of every perishable
foodstuff; on the fourth appeared instead, to Ebenezer's unhappy surprise,
the usual fare of sailors and sea-travelers: a weekly ration of seven pounds
of bread or ship biscuit for master and man alike, with butter scarce enough

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [229]

to disguise its tastelessness; half a pound of salt pork and dried peas per
man each mess for five days out of the week, and on the other two salt
beef instead of pork— except when the weather was too foul for the cook
to boil the kettle, in which case every soul aboard made do for the day with
a pound of English cheese and dreams of home.

All this, however, was mere disillusionment, the fault not of Lord Balti-
more, the captain of the Poseidon, or the social order, but merely of Eben-
ezer's own naivete or, as he himself felt mildly, not troubling to put it
into words, of the nature of Reality, which had failed to measure up to
his expectations. In any case, though the food grew no more palatable, he
soon became sufficiently inured to it not to feel disappointed between meals,
A more considerable objection— which led him one afternoon to profess
his discontent to Bertrand— was that he had to eat with the servants after
the ladies and gentlemen were finished.

"Think not 'tis the mere ignominy oft," he assured his valet hastily,
"though in truth they are an uncouth lot and are forever making sport of
me. Tis you I fear for; that you'll be drawn into talk at the Captain's table
and discover yourself for an ass. Thrice daily I wait for news of your dis-
grace, and despair of carrying the fraud to Maryland!"

"Ah, now, sir, have no fear." They were in the ship's waist, and Bertrand
seemed less concerned with Ebenezer's complaint than with watching a
young lady who stood with the Captain by the taffrail. "There's no great
trick to this gentleman business, that I can see; any man could play the
part that hath a ready wit and keeps his eyes and ears open."

"Indeed! I'd say so much for my disguise, perhaps; they are no fools
you dine with, though, but men of means and breeding."

But so far from being chastened by this remark, the valet actually chal-
lenged it, still watching the maid more than his master while he talked.

"Marry, sir, none knows better than your servant the merits of wealth
and birth/' he declared benignly. "Yet, may I hang for't if any man was
e'er more bright or virtuous for either." He went on to swear by all his
experience with fine ladies and gentlemen, both as their servant and as
their peer, that no poor scullery maid among Ebenezer's messmates was
more a hussy than yonder maiden on the poop deck, for example, whom
he identified as one Miss Lucy Robotham. "For all her fine clothes and
fancy speech, sir, she blushed not a blush this noontime when the Captain
pinched her 'neath the table, but smartly pinched him back! And not a
half hour later, what time I took her hand to help her up the stairway,
what did she do if not make a scratching in my palm? A whore's a whore

[ 2 JO ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

whate'er her station" he concluded, "and a fool a fool whate'er his wealth!9

Ebenezer did not question the verity of this democratic notion, but he
denied its relevance to the problem. " Tis not character and mother wit
that make your gentleman, Bertrand," he said, adding the name in order
to draw his man's eyes from Miss Robotham. " 'Tis manners and education.
By a thousand signs the gentleman knows his peer— a turn of phrase, a
choice of wine, a flourish of the quill— and by as many spies the fraud or
parvenu. Be you never so practiced at aping 'em, 'tis but a matter of time
till they find you out. A slip of the tongue, a slip of the fork: any trifle
might betray you."

"Aye," laughed the other, "but for what, prithee?"

"Why, for not a gentleman 'to the manner born/ as't were!" Ebenezer
was disturbed by the increasing arrogance of his servant, who had not
wanted presumption to begin with. "How shall you answer them book for
book, that have no books to your credit? How shall you hold forth on the
new plays in London or the state of things on the Continent, that have
not been through a university? Your true authentic gentleman is gallant
but not a fop, witty but no buffoon, grave but not an owl, informed but
not a pedant— in sum, he hath of every quality neither excess nor defect,
but the very Golden Mean."

To which the valet rejoined with a wave and a smile, "Haply so, f faith,
haply so!" And might have said more had not Ebenezer, his interest in
the matter fanned by his growing irritation, at once resumed his discourse.

"And just as the speech of the gentleman is to the speech of the crowd
as is the lark's song to the rooster's but that of the poet like an angel's
to the lark's, so the gentleman himself is a prince among men, and the
poet should be a prince among gentlemen!"

"Haply so, sir, haply 'tis so," Bertrand said again, and turning now to
his master added, "But would ye believe it? So wretched is this memory
of mine, that though I wrote out your commission word for word in ink,
and saw clear as gospel where it caused a gentleman to be a laureate poet,
I cannot summon up the part that makes your laureate be a gentleman!
And so miserable are these eyes and ears, they've tricked me into thinking
all the poets they e'er laid hold of— such as Masters Oliver, Trent, and
Merriweather back in London, to name no farther— that all these rhyming
wights have not a Golden Mean between 'em, nor yet a Brass or Kitchen-
copper! 'Sblood, to speak plainly, they are sober as jackanapes, modest as
peacocks, chaste as billy goats, soft-tongued as magpies, brave as church-
mice, and mannerly as cats in heat! Your common, everyday valet, if I may

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 231 ]

say so, is like to be twice the gentleman your poet e'er could dream of!
Nay, he's oft a nicer spirit than the gentleman his master, as all the world
knows, and hath not his peer for how wigs should be powdered or guests
placed at table. 'Tis he and not your poet, I should say, that is the gentle-
man's gentlemanl"

Ebenezer was too taken aback by this outburst to do more than squint
his eyes and cry "Stay!" But Bertrand would not be put off.

"Yet as for that," he went on, " 'tis little stead my gentleman's lore stands
me, now I'm a laureate poet! Marry, the ladies and gentlemen I've met,
so far from seeing their poet as a gentleman, look on him as a sort of saint,
trick ape, court fool, and gypsy soothsayer rolled in one. Your ladies tell
me things no Popish priest e'er heard of, fuss over me as o'er a lapdog, and
make me signs a gigolo would blush at; they worship and contemn me
by turns, as half a god and half a traveling clown. And the gentlemen,
f God! They think me mad or dullwitted out of hand; for who but your
madman would turn his hand to verse, save one too numskulled to turn
it to money? In short and in sum, sir, they'd call me no poet at all, or a
poor one at best, if e'er I should utter e'en a sensible remark, to say nothing
of a civil But think not I'm so fond as that!"

Ebenezer's features roiled, settling finally into a species of frown. Really,
the fellow had got impossible! Both men were given wholly to the argu-
ment now, which had perforce to be conducted in low tones; they faced
seawards, their elbows on the rail and their backs to Miss Robotham, who
had descended from the high poop to the quarter-deck on the opposite
side of the vessel.

"I grant you this," he said, "that a prating coxcomb of a poet may be
guilty of boorishness, as a bad valet may be guilty of presumption, and
both may be guilty of affectation; I grant you farther that the best poet
is never in essence a gentleman "

"Unlike your best valet," Bertrand put in.

"As for that," Ebenezer said sharply, "your valet that outshines his mas-
ter in's knowledge of etiquette and fashion is like the rustic that can
recite more Scripture than the theologian: his single gift betrays his limita-
tions. The gentleman valet and the gentleman poet have this in common,
that their gentlemanliness is for each a mask. But the mask of the valet
masks a varlet, while the poet's masks a godl"

"Oh la, sir!"

"Let me finish!" Ebenezer's eyes were bright, his blond brows crooked
and beetled. "Who more so than the poet needs every godlike gift? He

[232] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

hath the painter's eye, the musician's ear, the philosopher's mind, the bar-
rister's persuasion; like a god he sees the secret souls of things, the essence
'neath their forms, their priviest connections. Godlike he knows the springs
of good and evil: the seed of sainthood in the mind of murtherer,. the worm
of lechery in the heart of a nun! Nay, farther: as the poet among gentle-
men is as a pearl among polished stones, so must the Laureate be a diamond
in the pearls, a prince among poets, their flower and exemplar— even a
prince among princes! To him do kings commit their secular immortality,
as they commit their souls' to God! Small mystery that the first verse was
religious and the earliest poets pagan priests, as some declare, or that Plato
calls the source of poetry a divine madness like that of seers and sibyls. If
your true poet strays from the path of good demeanor, 'tis but the mark
of his calling, an access of the muse; yet the laureate, though in truth he
hath by necessity the greatest infusion of this madness, must exercise a
truly godlike self-restraint, for he is to men the ambassador and emblem
of his art: he is obliged not only to his muse, but to his fellow poets as
well."

Thus argued the Laureate, whose esteem for his office had risen with each
meal at the servants' mess; nor could Bertrand's most eloquent defense of
the art of valetry quite mollify his discontent.

" 'Tis your wish, then," Bertrand asked finally, "that in all things I play
the gentleman?"
"In every way."

"And take their actions as my model?"
"Nothing less."

"Why, then, I must beg some money of ye, sir," he declared with a laugh,
and explained that the last ten shillings of his own small savings had that
very noon been sacrificed in the distance-run pool, in which as a gentleman
he was absolutely obliged to participate.

"Ah, 'twas for that you asked my thoughts on gambling some while past."

"I must confess it," Bertrand said, and reminded his master that as much

could be said in favor of gambling as against it. "Besides which, sir, I must

keep on with't now I've begun, as well to guard our masks as to make good

my losses."

Now, Ebenezer himself had in reserve only what little he'd saved from
his years with the merchant Peter Paggen, the whole of which did not
exceed forty pounds; but at Bertrand's insistence that no smaller sum would
do, he fetched out twenty from his trunk and, returning to the rail where

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 233 ]

his proxy waited, passed him the money surreptitiously with suitable ad-
monitions and enjoinders.

At this point their conversation was interrupted by that same Miss
Robotham earlier aspersed by Bertrand; at a thump on the shoulder they
turned to find her standing close behind them, and Ebenezer paled at the
thought of what perhaps she'd heard.

"Madam!" he said, whipping off his hat. "Your servant!"

" Tis your master I want/' the girl said, and turned her back to him.
She was a brown-haired, excellently breasted maid of twenty years or so,
and though a certain grossness both of manner and complexion showed
a rustic, or at least colonial, essence beneath the elegance of her dress, yet
it seemed likely to Ebenezer that she was more innocent than concupiscient.
In fact, for the first time since describing his plight to Henry in the Plym-
outh coach, he was reminded of Joan Toast, his delicate concern for whom
had precipitated his departure from London: there was some similarity in
eyes and skin and forthright manner.

Bertrand, who had made no move to duplicate his master's courtesy,
leaned upon the railing and regarded the visitor with a look of crude ap-
praisal. Not daunted in the least, she clasped her hands pertly, bounced a
few times on her heels, and said, "I've a literary question for you, Mr.
Cooke."

"Aha," said Bertrand, and chucked her under the chin. "What hath a
tight young piece like you to do with literature, pray?"

Ebenezer, as alarmed by the request as by his man's vulgarity, made
haste to offer his services instead, suggesting that the Laureate should not
be bothered with trifling questions.

"Then what's the use of him?" the maid demanded, feigning a pout.
Then she pursed her lips, arched her brows, and added merrily, still in
Bertrand's direction, "Am I to suffer his lecherous stares for naught? He'll
say what poet wrote Out, out, strumpet Fortune, and say't this instant,
else my father shall know what poet tweaked me noontime where I blush
to mention and left me a bruise to show for't!"

"The moral to that," Bertrand said, "is, Who hath skirts of straw must
needs stay clear of fire."

"Moral! Thou'rt a proper priest to speak of morals! Enough now: who
said Out, out, strumpet Fortune, Shakespeare or Marlowe? I've two bob
on't with Captain Meech, that thinks him such a scholar."

Alarmed lest his servant give the game away, either by his reply or by

[234] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

his conduct^ Ebenezer was about to interrupt with the answer, but Bertrand
gave him no opportunity.

"Captain Meech, is't!" he exclaimed, with a teasing frown and a sidelong
look. 'Til bet two bob myself that for any bruise o' mine ye've three of
his to sit on!"

Miss Robotham and Ebenezer both protested, the latter genuinely.

"No? Take a pound on't, then," Bertrand laughed. "My pound against
your shilling. But mind, I must see the proof myself!" He then asked what
poet she'd bet on, offering to swear that man had penned the line.

"The Laureate hath not his peer for gallantry," Ebenezer observed with
relief to Miss Robotham's youthful back. "And in sooth, if chivalry be
served, what matters it that William "

"Oh no," the girl protested, cutting him off, 'Til have no favors from
you, Mister Laureate, for I well know what 'twill cost me in the end! Be-
sides which, I know the answer for a fact, and want no more than to hav't
confirmed:

Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! Ml you gods

In general synod take away her power.

Knock all her spokes and fellies out,

And bowl the round nave down the hill of Heaven,

As low as to the fiends!"

"Well done, well done!" Ebenezer applauded. "The Player himself
pleased Hamlet no more with't than you "

"Marry, all those knaves and strumpets!" Bertrand exclaimed. "Whoever
wrote it is a randy wight, now, ain't he? To speak the truth, young lady,
I might have scratched it out myself, for aught I know."

"If you please, ma'am!" Ebenezer cried, aghast at Bertrand's ignorance
and the peril of the situation. This time he forced himself between them
and took her arm as though to lead her off. "You must forgive my rudeness,
but I cannot let you annoy the Laureate farther!"

"Annoy him!" Miss Robotham snatched her arm away. "Me annoy him!'7

"I quite commend your interest in verse, which is rare enough e'en in
a London girl," the poet went on, speaking rapidly and glancing about to
see if others were watching them, "and 'tis no reflection on your rearing
that you presume so on this great man's gallantry, seeing thou'rt from the
plantations; yet I must explain "

"Hear the wretch!" Miss Robotham applied for sympathy first to an
imaginary audience and then specifically to Captain Meech, whom she saw

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 235 1

approaching from aft, "I ask Mr. Cooke a civil question, and this fellow
calls me a mannerless bumpkin!"

"Never mind him," the Captain said good-humoredly, not without a
brief scowl at the offender. "Who wins the bet?"

"Oh, everybody knows 'twas Shakespeare wrote it," she said, "but Mr.
Cooke's as great a tease as you: he swears 'twas he himself."

"Grand souls are ever wont to speak in epigrams," Ebenezer explained
desperately. "Haply it seemed a mere tease on the face oft, but underneath
'tis deep enough a thought: the Laureate means that one great poet feels
such kinship with another, in's the service of the Muse, 'tis as if Will Shakes-
peare and Ebenezer Cooke were one and the selfsame man!"

"My loss, then," sighed the Captain, more in reply to Miss Robotham's
remark than to Ebenezer's. "Henceforth," he promised Bertrand, "I'll
stick to my last and leave learning to the learned."

"Heav'n forbid!" Bertrand laughed. He had paid no heed whatever to
Ebenezer's previous alarm. "I lose enough on your seamanship without
betting against ye in the pool!"

Captain Meech then declaring with a wink that all his money was in
his quarters, Miss Robotham strode off on his arm to collect her winnings.

Bertrand looked after them enviously. "By God, that is a saucy piece!"

"Tis all up with us!" Ebenezer groaned, as soon as the couple was
out of earshot. "You've spiked our guns for fair!" He turned again to
the ocean and buried his face in his hands.

"What? Not a bit oft! Did ye see how she purred when I chuckled her
chin?"

"You treated her like a two-shilling tart!"

"No more than what she is," Bertrand said. "D'ye think she's playing
at cards with Meech right now?"

"But her father is Colonel Robotham of Talbot County, that used to
sit on the Maryland Council!"

Bertrand was unimpressed. "I know him well enough. Yet 'tis a queer
father will hear his daughter prate of knaves and strumpets, I must say,
and recite her smutty verses at the table."

"God save us!" cried the Laureate. "Where were we now had I not been
here to gloss your answer and turn your babbling into sense? Marry, if
you don't discover us with your blunders, you'll have us horsewhipped
with your foul behavior! Speak no more of the valet's refinement, i'God;
I've seen enough oft, and of his ignorance!"

"Ah now, compose thyself," said Bertrand. "Twas the Laureate I was

[ 236 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

playing, not the valet, or ye'd have seen refinement and to spare. I knew
what I was about."

"You knew "

"As for this same raillery and bookish converse your fine folk set such
store by/' he went on testily, "any gentleman's gentleman like myself that
hath stood off a space and seen it whole can tell ye plainly the object oft,
which is: to sound out the other fellow's sentiments on a matter and
then declare a cleverer sentiment yourself. The difference here 'twixt simple
and witty folk, if the truth be known, is that your plain man cares much
for what stand ye take and not a fart for why ye take it, while your smart
wight leaves ye whatever stand ye will, sobeit ye defend it cleverly. Add to
which, what any valet can tell ye, most things men speak of have but two
sides to their name, and at every rung on the ladder of wit ye hear one
held forth as gospel, with the other above and below."
"Ladder of wit! What madness is this?" Ebenezer demanded.
"No madness save the world's, sir, if ye'll see the matter whole. Take
your wig question, now, that's such a thing in London: whether to wear
a bob or a full-bottom peruke. Your simple tradesman hath no love for
fashion and wears a bob on's natural hair the better to labor in; but give
him ten pound and a fortnight to idle, he'll off to the shop for a great
French shag and a ha'peck of powder, and think him the devil's own fellow!
Then get ye a dozen such idlers; the sharpest among 'em will buy him
a bob wig with lofty preachments on the tyranny of fashion— haven't I
heard 'em!— and think him as far o'er his full-bottomed fellows as they
o'er the merchants' sons and bob-haired 'prentices. Yet only climb a rung
the higher, and it's back to the full-bottom, on a sage that's seen so many
crop-wigs feigning sense, he knows 'tis but a pose of practicality and gets
him a name for the cleverest of all by showing their sham to the light of
day. But a grade o'er him is the bob again, on the pate of some philosopher,
and over that the full-bottom, and so on. Or take your French question:
the rustical wight is all for England and thinks each Frenchman the Devil
himself, but a year in London and he'll sneer at the simple way his farm
folk reason. Then comes a man who's traveled that road who says, Tlague
take this foppish shill-I, shall-l! When all's said and done 'tis England
to the end!'; and after him your man that's been abroad and vows 'tis not
a matter of sMl-I, shall-I to one who's traveled, for no folk are cleverer
than the clever French, 'gainst which your English townsman's but a bump-
kin. Next yet's the man who's seen not France alone but every blessed
province on the globe; he says 'tis the novice traveler sings such praise

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 237 ]

for Paris—the man who's seen 'em all comes home to England and carries
all's refinement in his heart. But then comes your grand skeptical philos-
opher, that will not grant right to either side; and after him a grander,
that knows no side is right but takes sides anyway for the clever nonsense
oft; and after him your worldly saint, that says he's past all talk of wars and
kings fore'er, and gets him a great name for virtue. And after him "

''Enough, I beg you!" Ebenezer cried, "My head spinsl For God's sake
what's your point?"

"No more than what I said before, sir: that de'il the bit ye've tramped
about the world, and bleared your eyes with books, and honed your wits
in clever company, whate'er ye yea is nay'd by the man just a wee bit simpler
and again by the fellow just a wee bit brighter, so that clever folk care less
for what ye think than why ye think it. 'Tis this that saves me."

But Ebenezer could not see why. " Tis that shall scotch you, I should
fancy! A fool can parrot a wise man's judgment but never hope to defend
it."

"And only a fool would try/' said Bertrand, with upraised finger. 'Your
poet hath no need to."

Ebenezer's features did a dance.

"What I mean, sir," Bertrand explained, "when they come upon me with
one of their mighty questions—only yestere'en, for instance, they'd have
me say my piece on witchery, whether I believed in it or no— why, all
I do is smile me a certain smile and say, Why not?' and there's an end
on'tl The ones that agree are pleased enough, and as for the skeptical
fellows, they've no way to tell if I'm a spook-ridden dullard or a breed of
mystic twice as wise as they. Your poet need never trouble his head to
explain at all: men think he hath a passkey to Dame Truth's bedchamber
and smiles at the scholars building ladders in the court. This Civility and
Sense ye preach of are his worst enemies; he must pinch the ladies' bosoms
and pull the schoolmen's beards. His manner is his whole argument, as't
were, and that certain whimsical smile his sole rebuttal."

"No more," Ebenezer said sharply. "I'll hear no more!"

Bertrand smiled his whimsical smile. "Yet surely 'tis the simple truth?"

"There is skin of truth on't, yes," the Laureate granted; "but 'tis like
the mask of sense on a madman or a film of ice on a skaters' pond— it
only makes what lies beneath more sinister."

Just then the bell was rung for the gentlemen and ladies to come to
supper.

[ 238 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Tis our goose that's cooked/7 Ebenezer said gloomily. "You'll see
this hour Miss Robotham marked your ignorance/'

"Haply so/7 said Bertrand with his smile, "but I'd stake your last farthing
she thinks I'm a bloody Solomon. We'll know soon enough who's right."

It was, in fact, closer to four hours before the Laureate was able to speak
privately with his man again, for long after the servants had themselves
finished eating, the fine folk lingered at cards and brandy in the main
cabin. Their very merriment, of course—the sounds of which Ebenezer
heard clearly where he stood by the foremast, brooding on the moonlit
ocean—seemed to indicate that nothing was seriously amiss; nevertheless
his exasperation was tempered by relief when finally he saw Bertrand emerge
on the quarter-deck with Captain Meech himself, still laughing at some
private joke, and fire up his pipe at the smoking-lamp. The poet felt a
pang of envy: he was not pleased with the progress of events, especially
his servant's insolent assurance. Yet it was not Bertrand's manner alone
that disturbed him; the truth was, he found the man's cynical argument
as attractive as his own idealistic reply and was at bottom satisfied with
neither. For that reason, when he asked what had been said at supper con-
cerning the literary wager of the afternoon, he was, if saddened, not sur-
prised by the report.

" Twas the talk of the table, right enough, sir." Bertrand puffed and
frowned at his pipe. "The Robotham wench told what I'd said and how
ye'd glossed it, word for word. To speak plainly, sir, the Colonel, her
father, then asked me why I abided so brash a servant, if ye'll pardon me,
as presumes to speak fofs master. The rest took up the cry, and the young
piece said at last, one could know me for a poet by the look of me, and
yourself for a byo- . . . beo- . . . something or other."

"Boeotian" the Laureate said glumly.

"Aye. Twas another of her smutty words.7'

Ebenezer then inquired, not enthusiastically, what answer his man had
made.

"What could I say, to end their gossip? I told 7em flat that naught matters
in a secretary save his penmanship. The Captain then summoned up old
strumpet Fortune again, that seems their favorite bawd: he knew the pas-
sage through, he said, but had forgot just when 'twas spoke in some play
or other he named."

"Ah." Ebenezer closed his eyes almost hopefully. "Then 'tis over and
done with us, after all."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [239]

"How's that, sir? I didn't bat an eyelash, thankee, but declared 'twas
spoke on shipboard an hour past noon, when the poet lost his last quid
on a short day's run." He pulled again on his pipe and spat with satisfaction
at the rolling ocean. "No more was said oft after that."

13: THE LAUREATE, AWASH IN A SEA OF DIFFICULTIES,
RESOLVES TO BE LAUREATE, NOT BEFORE INDITING
FINAL SEA-COUPLETS

AFTER THE FOREGOING CONVERSATIONS WITH BERTRAND, EBENEZER'S

dissatisfaction with his position was no longer confined to mealtimes; rather,
he took to a general brooding and spiritual malaise. He could write no
verse: even the sight of a school of great whales, which in happier times
would have set his fancy spinning, now called forth not a single rhyme.
At best he had got on indifferently with his messmates; now they sensed
his distaste, and resentment added malice to the jokes they made at his
expense. When, therefore, after perhaps a week of this solitary discontent,
Bertrand confided to him with a happy leer that Lucy Robotham was about
to become the Maryland Laureate's mistress, his reaction to the news was
anything but hospitable.

"You lay a finger on her/' he threatened, "and you'll finish your crossing
in leg irons."

"Ah, well, 'tis a little late for that advice, sir; the quail is bagged and
plucked, and wants but basting on the spit."

"No, I sayl" Ebenezer insisted, as much impatient as appalled. "Why
must I say it twice? Your gambling runs counter to my better judgment,
but fornication— 'tis counter to my very essence!"

Bertrand was altogether unruffled by his master's ire. "Not in the least,"
he said. "A poet without a mistress is a judge without a wig: 'tis the
badge of his office, and the Laureate should keep a staff of 'em. My sole
concern is to play the poet well, sir."

Ebenezer remained unpersuaded. " 'Tis an overnice concern that makes
a whore of the Colonel's daughter!"

Here Bertrand protested that in fact his interest in Lucy Robotham was
largely dispassionate: Colonel Robotham, he had learned, was one of
the original conspirators with John Coode who had overthrown Lord

[ 240 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Baltimore's government in 1689, and, for all he was sailing presently under
Governor Nicholson's protection, he might well be still in secret league
with the insurrectionists. " Twould not surprise me/' 'he declared, "if old
Robotham's using the girl for bait. Why else would he watch us carry on
so without a word? Aye, by Heav'n, I'll hoist him with his own petard!"

In the face of this new information and his valet's apparent talent for
intrigue, Ebenezer's resolve began to weaken: his indignation changed to
petulance. "You've a Sophist's gift for painting vice in virtue's color," he
said. " Tis clear thou'rt out to make the most of my name and office."

"Then I have your leave, sir?"

"I wonder you even trouble to ask it these days."

"Ah, thankee, sir!" Bertrand's voice showed obvious relief. "Thou'rt a
gentleman to the marrow and have twice the understanding of any wight
on the boat! I knew ye for a fine soul the first I e'er laid eyes on you, when
Master Andrew sent me to look to your welfare in London. In every
thing "

"Enough; you sicken me," the poet said. "What is't thou'rt after now,
for God's sake? I know this flattery will cost me dear."

"Patience, I pray ye, sir," Bertrand pleaded in a tone quite other than
that of his earlier conversations; he was for the nonce entirely the valet
again. After reaffirming at length his faith in Ebenezer's understanding
and their mutual interest in preserving their disguise, and asserting as well
that they were of one mind as regarded the importance of gentlemanly
wagering to that disguise, he confessed that he needed additional subsidiz-
ing to maintain appearances, and this at once.

"Dear God!" the Laureate cried. "You've not lost twenty pounds so
soon!"

Bertrand nodded confirmation and explained that he'd wagered heavily
in side bets on the past day's run in order to recoup his former losses, but
that despite his most careful calculations he'd lost by a paltry mile or so
to Miss Robotham, who he suspected had access to private information
from the Captain. " 'Tis but another case of influence over merit," he con-
cluded with a philosophic sigh.

"Half my savings! And you've gall enough to ask for the rest to throw
after it!"

"Far from it, sir," Bertrand declared. "On the contrary, I mean not only
to win your money and mine again, but to pay it back fivefold. 'Tis for
this as much as anything I need the Robotham wench/' The Poseidon,
he said, was near the end of her second week of southwestering, and the

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 241 ]

wise money placed the Azores only two or three days distant. So likely was
this landfall, in fact, that the bet-covering parson Mr. Tubman demanded a
pound for every shilling on those two dates, whereas any date before or
afterwards fetched most lucrative odds. Bertrand's plan, then, was to
make such a conquest of Miss Robotham that she would turn to his ac-
count all her influence with Captain Meech: if his private estimate of the
date of landfall was other than the prevailing opinion, Bertrand would
place all his money on and around the new date; if the Captain's guess
concurred with that of the passengers, Miss Robotham would employ every
art and wile to induce him to sail more slowly and raise the islands on
some later date. Either way, he assured Ebenezer, the prospect of enrich-
ing themselves was so certain that it could scarce be called a wager at all.

"Marry, you give me little choice!" Ebenezer said bitterly when his man
had finished. "First you make it seem not foolish to take the girl, then you
make it downright prudent, and now you make it necessary, albeit you
know as well as I at bottom 'tis naught but prurience and luxury. Take
the wench, and my money as well! Make me a name for a gambling
whoremonger and have done with't!"

Having thus given vent to his feelings, he fetched out his last twenty
pounds from the trunk and with great misgivings tendered the sum to
Bertrand, appealing a final time to the man's discretion. The servant
thanked him as one gentleman might thank another for a trifling loan and
went to setk out Lucy Robotham.

Following this transaction the poet's melancholia grew almost feverish.
All day he languished in his berth or slouched ungracefully at the rail to
stare at the ocean; Bertrand's announcement, delivered next morning with
a roll of the eyes, that the seduction of Miss Robotham was an accom-
plished fact, elicited only a sigh and a shake of his master's head; and
when in an attempt at cheerfulness the valet subsequently declared him-
self ready to have his way with strumpet Fortune, the Laureate's listless
reply was "Who trafficks with strumpets hath a taste for the pox/'

He was, as he himself recognized without emotion, very near a state
like that from which he'd been saved once by Burlingame and again, un-
intentionally, by John McEvoy. What saved him this time was an event
actually in keeping with his mood: on the first of the two "wise money"
days the fleet encountered its first really severe weather. The wind swung
round from north to southwest, increased its velocity, and brought with it
a settled storm of five days' duration. The Poseidon pitched, yawed, and
rolled in the heavy seas; passengers were confined below decks most of the

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

day. The smell of agitated bilge water permeated the cabins, and even
the sailors grew seasick. Ebenezer fell so ill that for days he could scarcely
eat at the servants' mess; he left his berth only when nature summoned
him either to the ship's rail or to the chamberpot. Yet, though he voiced
his misery along with the others, he had not, like them, any fervent wish
for calm: to precipitate a cataclysm is one thing, and requires resolution
at the least; but to surrender to and embrace an already existing cataclysm
wants no more than despair.

He did not see Bertrand again until late in the fifth and final day of
the storm, which was also the most severe. All through the lightless day
the Posiedon had shuddered along under reefed topsails, the wind having
shifted to the northeast, and at evening the gale increased. Ebenezer was
on the quarter-deck, in his innocence heaving over the windward rail and
in his illness oblivious to the unsavory results. Here he was joined by his
valet, as usual dressed in his master's clothes, who had come on deck for
the same purpose and who set about the work with similar untidiness. For
awhile they labored elbow to elbow in the growing dark; presently Ebenezer
managed to ask, "What odds doth the Reverend Tubman give on living
through this night? I'd make no bets on't."

At this Bertrand fell to a perfect fit of retching. "Better for all if the
bloody boat goes under!" he replied at last. " Tis not a fart to me if I
live, or die."

"Is this the Laureate I hear?" Ebenezer regarded his man's irifsery with
satisfaction.

"Don't speak the word!7' Bertrand moaned and buried his face in his
hands. "God curse the day I e'er left London!"

At every new complaint, Ebenezer's stomach grew easier. "But how is
this?" he asked sarcastically. "You'd rather be a gelded servingman in Lon-
don than a gentleman poet with a mistress and a fortune? I cannot fathom
it!"

"Would God Ralph Birdsall had untooled me!" Bertrand cried. "Man's
cod's a wretched handle that woman leads him 'round with. Oh, the whore!
The treacherous,, lying whore!"

Now the poet's satisfaction turned to real delight. "Aha, so the cock
must 4crow Cuckoo! By Heav'n, the wench doth well to horn you, that
make such sport of horning'others!"

"Nay, God, ye must not praise the slut!"

"Not praise her? She hath my praise and my endorsement; she hath my
blessing "

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 243 ]

"She hath your money too," said Bertrand, "all forty pound of it." And
seeing his master too thunderstruck to speak, he told the tale of his decep-
tion. The Robotham girl, he said, had sworn her love for him, and on the
strength of it had six days ago, by her own tearful account, mortgaged her
honor to the extent of permitting Captain Meech certain liberties with her
person, in return wherefor she was able to advise Bertrand to put his money
on a date several days later than the favored ones: she had it straight from
the Captain that, though Flores was indeed but one day off, a storm was
brewing on the south horizon that could set them back a hundred miles
with ease. At the same time she cautioned him not to disclose his wager
but to give out that he too was betting on the popular dates; she would
see to it, she vowed, that the bookmaking minister held his tongue— True
love recks not the cost! Finally, should the Poseidon not raise Flores on
the proper day, she had a maid with whom the lookout on the larboard
watch had fallen quite in love and for whose favors he would swear to
raising the jasper coasts of Heaven.

Thus assured, Bertrand had put his money at fifteen to one on the day
to follow this present day— but alas, as he saw too clearly now, the wench
had worked a manifold deception! Her real lover, it appeared, was no other
soul than the Reverend Tubman himself, for the sake of whose solvency
she had led every poor fool in the group to think her his secret mistress
and bet on the selfsame date. Then when the storm arrived on schedule,
how they all had cursed and bemoaned their losses, each laughing up his
sleeve at his advantage over the rest! But now, on the eve of their
triumph; on this very day of our Lord which might well be their last; in
short, one hour ago, the larboard lookout had sworn to sighting the moun-
tains of Corvo from his perch in the maintop, and though no other eye
save his had seen them, Captain Meech had made the landfall official.

As though to confirm the valet's story, Captain Meech just then ap-
peared on the poop and ordered the ship hove to under reefed fore-topsail
—a measure that the gale alone made prudent, whether Corvo lay to lee-
ward or not. Indeed, the mate's command to strike the main and mizzen
topsails was behindhand, for while the men were still in the ratlines
a gust split all three sails and sprang the mizzenmast as well. The foresail
itself was raised instead, double-reefed, to keep the ship from broaching
to until a new fore-topsail could be bent to its yard; then the crew hurried
to clear the wildly flapping remnants of the mizzen topsail— and none
too soon, for at the next strong gust on the weakened spar a mizzen shroud
parted with the crack of a pistol shot.

[244] THE SOT-WEED FACTO&

It was at this least fortunate of moments that Ebenezer, sickened anew
by the tidings of his ruin, leaned out again over the rail: the fiddle-tight
shroud lashed back and smacked him on the transom, and he was horrified
to find himself, for an instant, actually in the sea beside the ship! No
one saw him go by the board; -the officers and crew had their hands full,
and Bertrand, unable to look his master in the eye during the confession,
still cowered at the rail with his face in his arms. He could not shout for
coughing up sea-water, but nothing could have been done to save him
even in the unlikely event that anyone heard his cries. In short, it would
have been all over with him then and there had not the same wind that
formerly returned his heavings to him now blown the top off the next
great wave: crest, spray, and senseless poet tumbled back aboard, along
with numerous tons of green Atlantic Ocean, and for better or worse the
Laureate was safe.

However, he did not regain his consciousness at once. For what could
to him have been as well an hour or a year he languished in a species of
euphoria, oblivious to his surroundings and to the passage of time, even
to the fact that he was safe. It was a dizzy, dreamlike state, for the most
part by no means unpleasant, though interrupted now and then by short
periods of uncertain straggling accompanied by vague pain. Sometimes he
dreatned— not nightmares at all but oddly tranquil visions. Two recurred
with soine frequency: the first and most mysterious was of twin alabaster
mountain cones, tall and smoothly polished; old men were seated on the
peaks, and around the bases surged a monstrous activity the nature of which
he could not make out. The other was a recapitulation of his accident,
in a strangely altered version: he was in the water beside the Poseidon,
but the day was gloriously bright instead of stormy; the tepid sea was green,
glass calm, and not even wet; the ship, though every sail was full, moved
not an inch away; not Bertrand, but his sister Anna and his friend Henry
Burlingame watched him from the quarter-deck, smiling and waving, and
instead of terror it was ecstasy that filled the poet's breast!

When at length he came fully to his senses, the substance of these dreams
defied recall, but their tranquility came with him to the waking world. He
lay peacefully for a long time with his eyes open, admitting reality a fact
at a time into his consciousness. To begin with, he was alive— a certain
dizziness, some weakness of the stomach, and sharp pains in his buttocks
vouched for that, though he felt them with as much detachment as if
the ailing members were not his. He remembered the accident without

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 245 ]

alarm, but knew neither how it had occurred nor what had saved him.
Even the memory that Bertrand had lost all his money, which followed
immediately after, failed to ruffle his serenity. Gradually he understood
that he was lying in a hammock in the fo'c'sle: he knew the look of the
place from his earlier confinement there. The room was shadowy and full
of the smells of lamp-oil and tobacco-smoke; he heard occasional short
laughs and muttered curses, and the slap of playing-cards; somewhere near
at hand a sleeper snored. It was night, then. Last of all he realized that
the ship was riding steady as a church, at just the slightest angle of heel:
the storm had passed, and also the dangerous period of high seas and no
wind that often follows storms at sea; the Poseidon was making gentle way.

Though he was loath to leave that pleasant country where his spirit had
lately traveled, he presently swung his legs out of the hammock and sat
up. In other hammocks all around him men were sleeping, and four sailors
played at cards on a table near the center of the room.

"Marry!" one of them cried. "There stirs our sleeping beauty!" The rest
turned round with various smiles to look.

"Good evening/' Ebenezer said. His voice was weak, and when he stood
erect his legs gave way, and the sharp pain in his buttocks recommenced.
He grasped a bulkhead for support.

"What is't, lad?" a smiling jack inquired. "Got a gimp?"

At this the party laughed aloud, and though the point of the joke es-
caped him, Ebenezer smiled as well: the strange serenity he'd waked with
made it of no importance that their laughter was doubtless at his expense.

"Belike I took a fall," he said politely. "I hurt a little here and there."

" Twere a nine-day wonder if ye didn't!" an old fellow cackled, and
Ebenezer recognized that same Ned who'd first delivered him into Ber-
trand's presence and had pinched him so cruelly into the bargain. The
others laughed again, but bade their shipmate be silent.

A third sailor, somewhat less uncouth appearing than the rest, made
haste to say, "What Ned means is, small wonder ye've an ache or two
where the mizzen shroud struck ye." He indicated a small flask near at
hand. "Come have a dram to steady yourself while the mate's on deck."

"I thank you," Ebenezer said, and when he had done shivering from
the rum he mildly asked, "How is't I'm here?"

"We found ye senseless on the main deck in the storm/' the sailor said.
"Ye'd near washed through the scuppers."

"Chips yonder used your berth for planking," old Ned added gleefully,

[ 246 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

and indicated the sailor who had spoken first—a lean, sandy fellow in his
forties.

"No offense intended, mind," said the carpenter, playing another card.
"We was taking water aft, and all my planks was washed by the board.
I asked in the 'tween decks which berth to use, and yours was the one they
showed me/'

"Ah well, Fll not miss their company, I think." On further questioning
Ebenezer learned that his unconsciousness had lasted three days and
nights, during which time he'd had no food at all. He was ravenously hun-
gry; the cook, rather expecting him to die, had left no rations for him,
but the crewmen readily shared their bread and cheese. They showed con-
siderable curiosity about his three-day coma: in particular, had he felt not
anything at all? His assurance that he had not seemed greatly to amuse them.

"Out on't, then!" the carpenter declared. "Tis over and done with,
mate, and if aught's amiss, bear in mind we thought ye a dying man."

"Amiss?" Ebenezer did not understand. By this time the rum had
warmed his every member, and the edge was off his hunger. In the lantern
light the fo'c'sle looked quite cozy. He had not lately met with such hos-
pitality as had been shown him by these uncouth sailors, who doubtless
knew not even his pseudonym, to say nothing of his real identity. "If aught's
amiss," he asserted warmly, " 'tis that in my muddled state I've made no
proper thanks for all your kindness. Would God I'd pence to pay you for't,
though I know 'twas natural goodness moved you and not the landsman's
grubby wish for gold. But I'm a pauper."

"Think never a fart oft," one of the men replied. "'Tis your master's
lookout. Drink up, now."

The Laureate smiled at their innocence and took another drink. Should
he tell them who in fact they were so kind to? No, he decided affectionately;
let virtue be its own reward. He called to mind tales of kings in humble
dress, going forth among their subjects; of Christ himself, who sometimes
traveled incognito. Doubtless they would one day learn the truth, from
some poem or other that he'd write: then the adventure would become
a legend of the fo'c'sles and a telling anecdote in biographies to come.

The sailors' cordial attitude prevailed through the following fortnight,
as did the poet's remarkable tranquility. This latter, at least, he came in-
creasingly to understand: the second of his euphoric visions had come
back to him, and he saw in it, with a quiet thrill, a mystic affirmation of
his calling, such as those once vouchsafed to the saints. What was this
ship, after all, but the Ship of Destiriy, from which in retribution for his

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 247 ]

doubts he had been cast? What was the ocean but a Font of Rededication,
a moral bath to cleanse him of despair and restore him to the Ship? The
message was unequivocal even without the additional, almost frightening
miracle that he had unwittingly predicted it! Hence Burlingame's presence
on the dream ship, for he it was, in the King o' the Seas (that is to say,
Poseidonl) who had scoffed at the third line of Ebenezefs quatrain

"Let Ocean roar his damn'dest Gde:
Our Planks shan't leak; our Masts shan't fail;
With great Poseidon by our Side
He seemeth neither wild nor wide.

—which, he claimed, placed the poet in the ocean. Ebenezer thought warmly
of his friend and teacher, who for all he knew might long since have been
found out by Slye and Scurry and sent to a watery grave. Henry had been
skeptical of the laureateship, no doubt about it
"Would God I had him here, to tell this wonder to!"
Since the momentous sighting of Corvo in the Azores, the Poseidon
had been sailing a due westerly course along the thirty-seventh parallel of
latitude, which if all went well would lead her straight to the Virginia Capes.
The lengthy storm had scattered the fleet to the four winds, so that not
another sail was visible on the horizon; but Captain Meech looked to
overhaul the flagship any day^, which he reckoned to be ahead of them.
Although some time had been lost in making repairs, when Chips com-
pleted a masterful scarfing of the damaged spar the Poseidon bowled along
for days on end in a whole-sail breeze. They were five weeks out of Plym-
outh; May was upon them, and landfall again on everybody's lips.

During this period Ebenezer seldom left the foVsle: for one thing, it
took him a while to regain his strength; for another, he had no desire to
see his former messmates again, and anyway his musings kept him pleasantly
occupied. Bertrand, of course, he could not avoid some contact with, but
their meetings were brief and uncommunicative— the valet was uncertain
of his position, and Ebenezer, besides enjoying the man's discomfort, had
nothing to say to him. Though he could entertain no more illusions about
the ship's magnificence, his admiration for the sailors had increased tenfold.
His despair was gone completely: with tranquil joy he watched the dolphins
roll along the freeboard and in the wake and, caught up in the general
anticipation, he sharpened his quills, got out the volumes of Milton and
Samuel Butler that he used as references, and hatched the following cou-
plets to describe the great event that lay ahead: his first glimpse of Mary-
land.

[248] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Belike Ulysses, wncTring West

From Ilions Sack, in Tatters drest,

And weary' d of his ten-year Roam

O'er wat'ry Wilds of desart Foam.

Beholding Ithaca at last

And seeing all his Hardship past,

Did swear 'twas Heav'ns own Shore he'd rais'd,

So lovely seem'd it as he gaz'd,

Despite its Rocks and Fearsome Coast.

How Heav'nlier, then, this Land I boast,

Whose golden Sands and verdant Trees

And Harbours snug, designed to ease

The Sailors Burthen, greet the Eye

With naught save Loveliness! Nay, try

As best it might, no Poets Song,

Be't e'er so sweet or ne'er so long,

Could tell the Whole of MARYLANDS Charms,

When from the Oceans boundless Harms

The Travrler comes unscath'd at last,

And from his Vessels loftiest mast

He first beholds her Beautyl

To which, at the foot of the ledger-sheet, he duly appended E.G., G^*,
Pt & V of Md, and regarded the whole with a satisfaction such as he
had not felt since the night of Joan Toast's fateful visit, when he had com-
posed his hymn to virginity; in particular he was pleased by the several
enjambed lines and the sentences ending in the middle of a couplet or
even in the middle of a line, which features he thought lent a commendable
tightness of structure to the entire poem, and by the lengthy periods them-
selves, whose syntactical arrangement precluded the sort of line-at-a-time
composition characteristic of amateurs. He was impatient to have done
with disguises and assume his true position in the Province; his physical
condition was better than it had been before the accident, and his spirits
could scarcely have been improved upon. After considering the merits of
several plans, he resolved at length to end the fraud by announcing his
identity and reciting these latest verses as soon as the Poseidon made a land-
fall: clearly there was no plot against the Laureate aboard ship, and the
passengers deserved to know the truth about him and Bertrand

It was not his fortune, however, to carry out this pleasant scheme. With
their journey's end so near at hand, passengers and crew alike grew daily
more festive, and though the sailors were officially forbidden to drink aboard
ship, the fo'c'sle no less than the main cabin became the scene of nightly
revels. The crew's hospitality to Ebenezer waxed proportionately: he had

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 249 1

no money to invest in their card-games, but he readily shared their rum
and cordiality.

One evening when all had drunk a fair amount of liquor, old Ned, whose
amiable deportment had most surprised the Laureate, descended the com-
panionway and announced to the company at large that he had just re-
turned from an interview with Mister Ebenezer Cooke on the main deck.
Ebenezer's ears pricked up and his cheeks burned, for the man's tone im-
plied that he had been sent as some kind of spokesman for the group. The
rest avoided looking at him.

"I told 'Squire Cooke how fairly we'd looked to's man," Ned continued,
smiling unpleasantly at the poet. "I told him we'd fetched him from death's
door and nursed him back to health again, and shared our bed and board
without complaint. Then I asked him if't wouldn't please him to give
us somewhat for our pains, seeing we're coming on to landfall "

"What did he say?" a man asked. Ebenezer's features boiled about: he
was disappointed to learn that their generosity had been at least partly
venal, but at the same time he recognized his obligation to them and the
legitimacy of their claim.

Ned leered at him. 'The lying wretch pled povertyl Says he lost his last
farthing when we sighted Corvoi"

" Tis all too true," Ebenezer declared, in the face of a general protest
at Ned's announcement. "He is a profligate fellow and, not content to
squander his own money hath wagered mine as well, which is why I could
not join your games. But I swear you shall be paid for your kindness, since
you set a price on't. Do but copy down your names for me, and I'll dis-
patch the sum the day I arrive at Maiden."

'Til wager ye will, and lose my money tool" Chips laughed. "A vow
like that is lightly sworn!"

"Prithee let me explain " Ebenezer made up his mind to reveal his

identity then and there.

"No explanation needed," said the boatswain, who in most matters spoke
for the crewmen on that watch. "When sailors nurse an ailing sailor they
want no thanks, but when they share the fo'c'sle with an ailing passenger,
they're paid at the voyage's end."

" 'Tis the code o' the sea," Ned affirmed.

"And a fair one," Ebenezer granted. "If you'll but "

"Stay," the boatswain commanded with a smile, and brought forth a
sheet of paper from his pocket. "Your master pleads poverty, and you as
well. There's naught for't but ye must sign this paper."

[ 250 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

Ebenezer took the document doubtfully and read the rudely penned
words.

"What thing is this?" he cried, and looked up to find all the sailors grin-
ning at his wonder.

" Tis the code o' the sea, as Ned says/' the boatswain answered. "Sign
ye that paper and thou'rt a poor jack like the rest of us, that owes his
fellows not a fart."

Indeed, the document proclaimed that its signer was a kind of honorary
member of the Poseidon's crew and shared the rights, privileges, and obli-
gations of a common seaman, work and pay excepted. Its language, polished
by comparison with the penmanship, suggested that the gesture was in
fact a traditional means of coping with what Ebenezer had assumed to
be a novel predicament, and Captain Meech's signature in one corner be-
spoke official sanction.

"Then— you want no payment after all?"

The boatswain shook his head. " 'Twould be against the code to think
oft from a shipmate/'

"Why, 'tis an honor!" the poet laughed, his esteem for the men re-
doubled. "I'll sign my name right gladly!" And fetching out his quill he
fixed his proper name and title to the paper.

"Ah, mate," said Chips, who watched behind his shoulder, "what prank
is this ye play us for our kindness? Sign thy own name, not thy master's!"

"Is't you* ve heard before about the code?" Ned asked suspiciously.

"Nay, gentlemen, I mean no prank. 'Tis time you knew the truth." He
proceeded then to tell the whole story of his disguise, explaining as briefly
as he could what made it necessary. The liquor oiled his tongue: he spoke
eloquently and at length, and by way of credentials even recited from
memory every couplet in his notebook. "Do but say the word," he con-
cluded. "I'll fetch my valet hence to swear to't. He could not quote a verse
from memory and scarce could read 'em off the page."

At first openly incredulous, the men were clearly impressed by the time
the poet was finished. No one suggested summoning Bertrand to testify.
Their chief reservation, it turned out, was the fact that Ebenezer had
been content with a fo'c'sle hammock while his servant enjoyed the favors
of Miss Lucy Robotham, and the Laureate turned this quickly to account
by reminding them of his hymn to virginity: such behavior as Bertrand's
was unthinkable in .a man to whom virginity was of the essence.

" 'Sbody!" the boatswain cried. "Ye mean to say a poet is like a popish
priest, that uses his cod for naught but a bilge-pump?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 2J1 ]

"I speak for no poet save myself/7 Ebenezer replied, and went on to
explain, insofar as modesty permitted, the distinction between ecclesiastical
celibacy and true virginity. The former, he declared, was no more than a
discipline, albeit a highly commendable one in that it turned to nobler
work the time and energy commonly spent on love-making, spared the
votary from dissipating entanglements with mistresses and wives, and was
conducive in general to a longer and more productive life; but it was by
no means so pure a state as actual virginity, and in point of fact implied
no necessary virtue at all—the greatest lecher is celibate in later years, when
his powers have fled. Celibacy, in short, was a negative practice almost
always adopted either by default or by external authority; virginity, on the
other hand, was a positive metaphysical state, the more to be admired since
it was self-imposed and had in itself neither instrumental value nor, in the
male, physical manifestation of its possession or loss. For him it had not
even the posthumous instrumentality of a Christian virtue, since his in-
terest in it was ontological and aesthetic rather than moral. He expatiated
freely, more for his own edification than that of the crew, who regarded
him with awe.

"Ye mean to sit there and tell us/' the boatswain asked soberly in the
middle of a sentence, "ye never caulked a fantail in your life? Ye never
turned the old fid to part some dock-whore's hemp?"

"Nor shall I ever/' the poet said stoutly, and to forestall further prykig
he returned the proclamation and proposed a drink to his new position.
"Think not I count your honor less as Laureate," he assured them. "Let's
have a dram on't, and ere the night's done I'll pay my toll with something
more sweet than silver." Indeed, he meant to do them no less an honor
than to sing their praises for ever and all in verse.

The sailors looked at each other.

"So be't!" old Ned cackled, and the others voiced approval too. "Get
some rum in him, mates, 'fore the next watch!"

Ebenezer was given the bottle and bade to drink it all himself. "What's
this?" He laughed uncertainly. "A sort of initiation ceremony?"

"Nay, that comes after," said Chips. "The rum's to make ye ready."

Ebenezer declined the preliminaries with a show of readiness for any
mock ordeal. "Let's put by the parsley and have at the meat, then; you'll
find me game for'tl"

This was the signal for a general uproar: the poet's arms were pinioned
from both sides; his chair was snatched from under him by one sailor,
and before he could recover from his surprise another pressed his face into

[ 252 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

a pillow that lay in the center of the table, having magically appeared from
nowhere. Not given by temperament to horseplay, Ebenezer squirmed with
embarrassment; furthermore, both by reason of his office and from sim-
ple fear of pain he did not relish the idea of ritual bastinados on his back-
side, the administering of which he assumed to be the sailors' object.

When to his horror it grew clear, a moment later, that birching was not
their intent at all, no force on earth could keep him silent; though his
head was held as fast as were his limbs, he gave a shriek that even the
main-top lookout heard.

"Captain Meech will hang you for this!" he cried, when he could muster
words.

"Ye think he knows naught o' the code o' the sea?" Ebenezer recognized
old Ned's evil cackle behind him. "Ye saw his name on the paper, did ye
not?"

And as if to confirm the hopelessness of his position, no sooner had he
recommenced his shrieks than the mate on deck thrust his head down the
companionway to issue a cheerful ultimatum: "The Captain says belay the
hollowing or lay the wretch out with a pistol-butt. He's bothering the ladies."

His only threat thus spiked, Ebenezer seemed condemned to suffer the
initiation in its ruinous entirety. But a sudden cry went up on deck— Eb-
enezer, half a-swoon, paid no attention to it— and in an instant every man
ran for the companionway, leaving the novice to his own resorts. Weak with
outrage, he sent a curse after them. Then he made shift to dress himself and
tried as best he could to calm his nerves with thoughts of retribution. Still
oblivious to the sound of shouts and running feet above his head, he pres-
ently gave voice to a final sea-couplet, the last verse he was to spawn for
weeks to come:

"Hell hath no fouler, filthier Demon:
Preserve me, LORD, from English Seamen!"

Now to the general uproar on deck was added the sound of musket fire
and even the great report of a cannon, though the Poseidon carried no
artillery: whatever was happening could no longer be ignored. Ebenezer
went to the companionway, but before he could climb up he was
met by Bertrand, in nightgown and cap, who leaped below in a single
bound and fell sprawling on the floor.

"Master Ebenezer!" he cried and, spying the poet by the ladderway,
rose trembling to his knees. At sight of the man's terror Ebenezer's flesh
tingled.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 253 ]

"What is't, man? What ails you?"

"We're all dead men, sir!" Bertrand wailed. " Tis all up with us! Pirates,
sir! Ah, curse the hour I played at Laureate! The devils are boarding us
this moment!"

"Nay! Thou'rt drunk!"

"I swear't, sir! Tis the plank for all of us!" In the late afternoon, he
explained, the Poseidon had raised another sail to the southeast, which,
taking it for some member of the fleet, Captain Meech made haste to
overhaul before dark— the man-o'-war that was to see them safely through
pirate waters had been out of sight since Corvo, and two ships together
were more formidable prey than one alone. But it had taken until just
awhile ago to overtake the stranger, and no sooner were they in range
than a shot was fired across their bow, and they realized too late that they
were trapped. "Would Heav'n I'd stayed to face Ralph Birdsall!" he la-
mented in conclusion. "Better my cod lost than my whole life! What shall
we do?"

The Laureate had no better answer for this than did his valet, who still
crouched trembling on his knees» unable to stand. The shooting had
stopped, but there was even more shouting than before, and Ebenezer
felt the shock of another hull brushing the Poseidon's. He climbed a little
way up the ladder— just enough to peer out

He saw a chilling sight. The other vessel rode along the Poseidon's star-
board beam, made fast to her victim with numerous grappling hooks. It
was a shallop, schooner-rigged and smaller than the Poseidon, but owing
to its proximity and the long weeks during which nothing had been to
be seen but open sea on every hand, it looked enormous. Men with pistols
or torches in one hand and cutlasses in the other, presumably pirates, were
scrambling over the railings unopposed, the firelight rendering them all
the more fearsome, and were herding the Poseidon's crew around the main-
mast; it appeared that Captain Meech had deemed it unwise to resist. The
Captain himself, together with his fellow officers, could be seen under
separate guard farther aft, by the mizzen, and already the passengers were
being rousted out from their berths onto the deck, most in nightclothes
or underwear. The men cursed and complained; the women swooned,
shrieked, or merely wept in anticipation of their fate. Over the pirates' fore-
mast hung the gibbous moon, its light reflecting whitely from the fluttering
gaff-topsails; the lower sails, also luffing in the cool night breeze, glowed
orange in the torchlight and danced with giant, flickering shadows. Eben-
ezer leaned full against the ladder to keep from falling. To his mind

[ 254 1 THE SOT-W1™ FACTOR

rushed all the horrors he'd read about in Esquemeling: how Roche
Brasiliano had used to roast his prisoners on wooden spits, or rub their
stripes with lemon juice and pepper; how L'Ollonais had pulled out his
victims' tongues with his bare hands and chewed their hearts; how Henry
Morgan would squeeze a man's eyeballs out with a tourniquet about the
skull, depend him by the thumbs and great toes, or haul him aloft by the
privy members.

From behind and below came the sound of Bertrand's lamentations,

"Now belay it, belay it!" one of the pirates was commanding, perhaps
an officer. It was not the passengers' miserable carcasses they had designs
on, he declared, but money and stores. If everyone behaved himself prop-
erly,, no harm would befall them save the loss of their valuables, a few
barrels of pork and peas, and three or four seamen, whom the pirates
needed to complement their crew; in an hour they could resume their voy-
age. He then dispatched a contingent of pirates to accompany the male
passengers back to their quarters and gather the loot, the women remaining
above as hostages to assure a clean picking; another detail he ordered to
pillage the hold; and a third, consisting of three armed men, came forward
to search the fo'c'sle for additional seamen.

"Quickly!" Ebenezer cried to Bertrand, jumping to the floor. "Put these
clothes on and give me my nightgown!" He commenced pulling the valet's
clothes off himself as hastily as possible.

"Why?" Bertrand wailed. " Tis all over with us either way."

Ebenezer had his clothes off already and began to yank at the night-
gown. "We know not what's in store for us," he said grimly. "Belike 'tis
the gentlemen they're after, not the poor folk. At any rate 'twere better
to see't through honestly: if I'm to die I'll die as Eben Cooke, not Bertrand
Burton! Off with this, now!" He gave a final tug, and the gown came off
over Bertrand's head and arms. "I'Christ, 'tis all beshit!"

"For very fear," the valet admitted, and scrabbled after some clothes.

"Avast there, laddies!" came a voice from the companionway. "Lookee
here, mates, 'tis a floating Gomorry!"

Ebenezer, the foul nightdress half over his head, and Bertrand, still
naked on all fours, turned to face three grinning pirates, pistols and swords
in hand, on the ladder.

"I do despise to spoil your party, sailors," said the leader. He was a fero-
cious-looking Moor, bull-necked, broken-nosed, rough-bearded, and dark-
skinned; a red turbanlike cap sat on his head, and black hair bristled from
his open shirt. "But we want your arses on deck."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 255 ]

"Prithee don't mistake me, sir/' Ebenezer answered, pulling the skirts
of his nightdress down. He drew himself up as calmly as he could and
pointed with disdain to Bertrand. "This fellow here may speak for him-
self, but I am no sailor: my name is Ebenezer Cooke, and I am Poet
Laureate of His Majesty's Province of Maryland!"

14: THE LAUREATE IS EXPOSED TO TWO
ASSASSINATIONS OF CHARACTER, A PIRACY, A NEAR-
DEFLOWERING, A NEAR-MUTINY, A MURDER, AND AN
APPALLING COLLOQUY BETWEEN CAPTAINS OF THE
SEA, ALL WITHIN THE SPACE OF A FEW PAGES

UNIMPRESSED BY EBENEZER^S DECLARATION, THE HORRENDOUS MOOR AND

his two confederates hustled their prisoners up to the main deck, the Lau-
reate clad only in his unpleasant nightshirt and Bertrand in a pair of
breeches hastily donned. The uproar had by this time subsided to some ex-
tent; though the women and servants wepf and wailed on every hand, the
officers and crew stood sullenly in groups around the mizzen and foremasts,
respectively, and the gentlemen, who were returning one by one from the
main cabin under the guard of their plunderers, preserved a tight-lipped
silence. Thus far no physical harm had been offered either woman or man,
and the efficient looting of the Poseidon was nearly complete: all that re-
mained of the pirates' stated objectives, as overheard by Ebenezer, was ta
finish the transfer of provisions and impress three or four seamen into their
service.

For robbery Ebenezer cared little, his valet having picked him clean
already; it was the prospect of being impressed that terrified him, since he
and Bertrand had been captured in the fo'c'sle and neither was wearing
the clothes of a gentleman. His fears redoubled when their captors led
them toward the foremast.

"Nay, prithee, hear me!" he cried. "I am no seaman at all! My name
is Ebenezer Cooke, of Cooke's Point in Maryland! I'm the Laureate
Poet!"

The Poseidon s crew, despite the seriousness of their position, grinned
and elbowed one another at his approach.

"Thou'rt a laureate liar, Jack," growled one of the pirates, and flung

[256] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

him into the group. But the scene attracted notice, and a pirate officer,
who by age and appearance seemed to be the Captain, approached from
the waist.

"What is't, Boabdil?" The officer's voice was mild, and his dress, in con-
trast to the outlandishness of his men's, was modest, even gentlemanly;
on shore one would have taken him for an honest planter or shipowner
in his fifties, yet the great Moor was clearly alarmed by his approach, and
glowered at Ebenezer for having precipitated it,

"Naught in the world, Captain. We found these puppies buggered in
the fo'c'sle, and the long one there claims he's no sailor."

"Ask my man here!" Ebenezer pleaded, falling on his knees before the
Captain. "Ask those wretches yonder if I'm one of them! I swear to you
sir, I am a gentleman, the Laureate of Maryland by order of Lord Balti-
more!"

In response to the Captain's question Bertrand attested his master's iden-
tity and declared his own, and the boatswain volunteered additional con-
firmation; but old Ned, though no one had asked his opinion, spitefully
swore the opposite, and by way of evidence produced, to the poet's horror,
the document signed in the fo'c'sle, which proclaimed Ebenezer a member
of the crew.

" 'Twere better for all if ye signed them two aboard," he added. "They're
able enough seamen, but thieves and rogues to ship with! Don't let 'em
fool ye with their carrying-on!"

Seeing their old shipmate's purpose, some of the other men took up the
cry, hoping thereby to save themselves from being forced to join the pi-
rates. But the Captain, after examining Ned's document, flung it over
the side.

"I know those things," he scoffed. "Besides, 'twas signed by the Laureate
of Maryland." He appraised Ebenezer skeptically. "So thou'rt the famous
Eben Cooke?"

"I swear't, sir!" Ebenezer's heart pounded; he tingled with admiration
for the Captain's astuteness and with wonder that his own fame was al-
ready so widespread. But his troubles were not over, for although the pirate
seemed virtually persuaded, he ordered both men brought aft for identi-
fication by the passengers, whereupon he was perplexed to hear a third ver-
sion—neither of the men was a sailor, but it was the older, stouter one who
was Laureate, and the skinny wretch his amanuensis. Captain Meech
agreed, and added that this was not the servant's first presumption to his
master's office.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 257 ]

"Ah," the pirate captain said to Bertrand, "thou'rt hiding behind thy
servant's skirts, then! Yet how is't the crew maintain the contrary?"

By this time the looting of the Poseidon was complete, and everyone's
attention turned to the interrogation. Ebenezer despaired of explaining
the complicated story of his disguise.

"What matters it to you which is the liar?" Captain Meech inquired
from the quarter-deck, where he was being held at pistol-point. "Take
their money and begone with ye!"

To which the pirate answered, undisturbed, "'Tis not the Laureate's
money I want— he hath little enough of that, I'll wager." Ebenezer and
Bertrand both vouched for the truth of this conjecture. " 'Tis a good valet
I'm after, to attend me aboard ship; the Laureate can go to the Devil."
"Ye have found me Out," Bertrand said at once. "I'll own I am the
Laureate Eben Cooke."

"Wretch!" cried Ebenezer. "Confess thou'rt a lying scoundrel of a serv-
ant!"

"Nay, I'll tell the truth," the pirate said, watching both men carefully.
" Tis the servant can go hang for all o' me; I've orders to hold the Laureate
on my ship."

"There is your poet, sir." Bertrand pointed shamelessly to Ebenezer. "A
finer master no man ever served."

Ebenezer goggled. "Nay, nay, good masters!" he said at last. " 'Tis not
the first time I've presumed, as Captain Meech declared! This man here
is the Laureate, in truth!"

"Enough," the pirate commanded, and turned to the turbaned Moor.
"Clap 'em both in irons, and let's be off."

Thus amid murmurs from the people on the Poseidon the luckless pair
were transferred to the shallop, protesting mightily all the way, and having
confiscated every firearm and round of ammunition they could find aboard
their prey, the pirates gave the ladies a final pinch, clambered over the
rail, cast off the grapples, and headed for the open sea, soon putting
their outraged victims far behind. The kidnaped seamen— Chips, the boat-
swain, and a youngster from the starboard watch — were taken to the cap-
tain's quarters to sign papers, and the two prisoners . confined forward in
the rope- and sail-locker, which by addition of a barred door and leg irons
made fast to the massive oak knees had been turned into a lightless brig.
Sick with wrath at his valet's treachery though he was, and with appre-
hension for his fate, Ebenezer was also bewildered by the whole affair and
demanded to know the reason for their abduction; but to all such queries

[ 2rg ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

their jailer— that same black giant who had first laid hands on them— sim-
ply responded, "Captain Pound hath his reasons, mate," and would say
no more. It was not until the leg irons were fastened and the brute, in the
process of bolting the heavy door, repeated this answer for the fourth or
fifth time, that Ebenezer recognized the name.

"Captain Pound, did you say? Your captain's name is Pound?"

'Tom Pound it is," the pirate growled, and stayed for no further ques-
tions.

"Dear Heav'n!" the poet exclaimed. He and Bertrand were alone in
the tiny cell now, and in absolute darkness, the Moor having taken the
lamp with him.

"D'ye know the blackguard, sir? Is he a famous pirate? Ah Christ, that
I were back in Pudding Lane! I'd hold the wretched thing myself, and let
Ralph Birdsall do his worst!"

"Aye, I know of Thomas Pound." Ebenezer's astonishment at the coin-
cidence—if indeed it was one— temporarily gained the better of his wrath.
"He's the very pirate Burlingame once sailed with, off New England!"

"Master Burlingame a pirate!" Bertrand exclaimed. "At that, 'tis no sur-
prise to me "

"Hold thy lying tongue!" snapped Ebenezer. "Thou'rt a pretty knave
to criticize my friend, that would throw me to the sharks yourself for tup-
pence!"

"Nay, prithee, sir," the servant begged, "think not so hard of me. I'll
own I played ye false, but 'twas thy life or mine, no paltry tuppence."
What's more, he added, Ebenezer had done the same a moment later,
when the Captain revealed his true intention.

To this truth the Laureate had no rejoinder, and so for a time both men
were silent, each brooding on his separate misery. For beds they had two
piles of ragged sailcloth on the floor timbers, which, since their cell was
in the extreme bow of the shallop, were not horizontal but curved upwards
from keel and cutwater, so that they also formed the walls. The angle,
together with the pounding of waves against the bow, would have made
sleep impossible for Ebenezer, despite his great fatigue, even without the
additional discomforts of fear and excitement. His mind returned to Henry
Burlingame, who in search of information about his parentage had sailed
under the very brigand who now held them prisoner; perhaps aboard this
very ship.

"Would he were here now, to intercede for me!"

He considered revealing his friendship with Burlingame to Captain

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR I 259 ]

Pound, but rejected the idea. He had no idea what name Henry had sailed
under, for one thing, and his friend's manner of parting company with
his shipmates would scarcely raise the value, in the Captain's eyes, of an
acquaintanceship with him. Ebenezer recalled the story, told him in the
Plymouth coach, of Burlingame's adventure with the mother and daughter
whom he'd saved from rape, and who had rewarded him with, among
other things, the first real clue to his ancestry. How sorely did he miss
Henry Burlingame! He could not even remember with any precision
what his dear friend looked like; at best his mental picture was a composite
of the very different faces and voices of Burlingame before and after the
adventures in America. Bertrand's remark came to his mind again, and
brought with it disturbing memories of the valet's encounters with Henry:
their meeting in the London posthouse, never mentioned by his friend,
and their exchange of clothing in the stable of the King o' the Seas. Why
had Bertrand not been surprised to learn of Burlingame's piracy, which
had so astonished Ebenezer?

"Why did you speak so ill of Burlingame?" he asked aloud,, but in re-
ply heard only the sound of snoring from the other side of the great keel
timber between them.

"In such straits as ours the wretch can sleep!7' he exclaimed with a mix-
ture of wonder and exasperation, but had not the heart to wake him. And
eventually, though he had thought the thing impossible, he too succumbed
to sheer exhaustion and, in that unlikeliest of places, slept.

By morning the question had either gone from his mind or lost its
importance, for he said nothing of it to his servant. It appeared as the day
went on that their treatment at the hands of Captain Pound was not to
be altogether merciless: after a breakfast of bread, cheese, and water— not
punishment, but the whole crew's morning fare— they were released from
their leg irons, given some purloined clothing, and allowed to come on
deck, where they found themselves riding an empty expanse of ocean. The
Moor, who seemed to be first mate, set them to various simple chores
like oakum-picking and holystoning; only at night were they returned to
their miserable cell, and never after the first time were they subjected to
the leg irons. Captain Pound put his case plainly to them: he was per-
suaded that one or the other was the Laureate but put no faith in the
assertions of either, and meant therefore to hold both in custody. He would
say no more regarding the reason for their incarceration than that he was
following orders, nor of its probable term than that when so ordered he

[260] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

would release them. In the meantime they had only to look to their be-
havior, and no injury would be done them.

From all this Ebenezer could not but infer that his captor was in some
manner an agent of the archconspirator John Coode, at whose direction
he had lain in ambush for the Poseidon. The man would stop at nothing
to reach his mischievous ends! And how devilish clever, to let the pirates
take the blame! The prospects of death or torture no longer imminent, the
Laureate allowed himself boundless indignation at being kidnaped— which
mighty sentiment, however, he was sufficiently prudent to conceal from the
kidnapers—and at the same time could not but commend his foe's respect
for the power of the pen.

"Tis perfectly clear," he explained to Bertrand in a worldly tone.
"Milord Baltimore had more than the muse in mind when he commissioned
the Marylandiad. He knows what too few princes will admit: that a good
poet's worth two friends at court to make or break a cause, though of course
the man's too sensible of a poet's feelings to declare such a thing outright.
Why else did he send dear Henry to watch after me, d'you think? And
why should Coode waylay me, but that he knows my influence as well as
Baltimore? Ffaith, two formidable antagonists!"

If Bertrand was impressed, he was not a whit consoled. "God pox the
twain of 'em!"

"Say not so/' his master protested. " Tis all very well to keep an open
mind on trifles, but this is a plain case of justice against poltroonery, and
the man that shrugs compounds the felony."

"Haply so," Bertrand said with a shrug. "I know your Baltimore's a won-
drous Papist, but I doubt me he's a saint yet, for all that." When Ebenezer
objected, the valet went on to repeat a story he'd heard from Lucy
Robotham aboard the Poseidon, the substance of which was that Charles
Calvert was in the employ of Rome. "He hath struck a dev'lish bargain
with the Pope to join the Papists and the salvages against the Protestants
and butcher every soul of 'em! Then when he hath made a Romish fortress
out of Maryland, the Jesuits will swarm like maggots o'er the landscape,
and ere ye can say 'Our Father' the entire country belongs to Rome!"

"Pernicious drivel!" Ebenezer scoffed. "What cause hath Baltimore to
do such evil?"

"What cause! The Pope is sworn to beatify him if he Romanizes Mary-
land, and canonize him if he snatches the whole country! He'll make a
bloody saint of him!" It was to prevent exactly this castastrophe, Lucy
Robotham had declared, that her father and the rest had joined with Coode

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 261 ]

to overthrow the Papists in Maryland, coincidentally with the deposition
of King James, and to petition William and Mary to assume the government
of the Province. 'Tet old Coode was ill paid for's labors," Bertrand said,
"for no sooner was the house pulled down than the wreckers fell out
amongst themselves, and Baltimore contrived to get this fellow Nicholson
the post of Governor. He flies King William's colors, but all the world
knows he's a Papist at heart: when he fought with James at Hounslow
Heath, he said his mass with the rest, and 'twas an Irish Papist troop he
took to Boston."

"Dear Father!" Ebenezer cried. "What a sink of calumny this Robotham
strumpet was! Nicholson's as honest a man as I!"

"He is the Duke of Bolton's bastard," the valet went on stubbornly. "And
ere he took up with the Papists he was aide-de-camp to Colonel Kirke in
Africa. They do declare he had a draught of wine from the Colonel's arse
at Mequinez, to please the Emperor Muley Ishmael "

"Stop!"

"Some say 'twas May-wine and others Bristol sherry; Mistress Lucy her-
self held with the May-winers."

"I'll hear no more!" the poet threatened, but to his every protest
Bertrand made the same replies. "There's a lot goes on that your honest
wight dreams naught of," or "More history's made in the bedchamber than
in the throne room."

" 'Tis not a fart to me who's right or wrong," he said at last. "This Coode
hath ginned us either way, and we'll ne'er set foot on land."

"How is that?" the poet demanded. "I've fared no worse here than
aboard the Poseidon, and we're only to be held till farther notice."

"No doubt!" the servant said. "But if thou'rt such a cannon as Charles
Calvert thinks, is't likely Coode. will turn ye loose to blast him? 'Tis a
mystery to me we're still alive!"

Ebenezer could not but acknowledge the logic of this position, yet
neither could he be immediately terrified by it. Captain Pound was
unquestionably formidable, but he was not cruel: although in the incident
related by Burlingame he had apparently condoned rape,, he seemed to
draw the line at murder, and his plundering of the Poseidon had been
almost gentlemanly. Moreover he was not even avaricious, as pirates go: for
weeks on end the shallop cruised with apparent aimkssness from north to
south and back again, flying English colors; when a sail appeared on the
horizon the pirates gave chase, but upon overhauling the other ship they
would salute it amiably, and Captain Pound would inquire, as might the

L202J THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

captain of any vessel met at sea, what port the stranger was bound for, and
with what cargo. And though the replies were sometimes provocative—
"Bark Adelaide, a hundred and thirty days out of Falmouth, for Philadelphia
with silk and silverware," or "Brig Pilgrim out of Jamaica with rum for
Boston"— only twice during the three full months of his imprisonment did
Ebenezer witness acts of piracy, and these occurred consecutively on the
same early August day, in the following manner:

For several days the shallop had ridden hove to, though the weather was
fine and nothing could be seen on any quarter. Just after the midday meal
on the day referred to the lookout spied a sail to westward, and after ob-
serving it for some time through his glass, Captain Pound said, " "Tis the
Poseidon, all right. Take 'em below." The three kidnaped sailors were
ordered to their quarters in the fo'c'sle, Bertrand was confined to the sail-
locker, and Ebenezer, who had labored all morning at the apparently point-
less job of shifting cargo in the hold, was sent below to complete the task.

"Poor Captain Meech!" he thought. "This devil hath lain in wait to ruin
him!" Though he deplored the idea of piracy in general and wished neither
Meech nor his passengers harm, he could not feel pity for the sailors who
had done him such an outrage; having witnessed already the ferocity of
the pirates, he rather relished the idea of a fight between them and the
Poseidon's crew. In any case he had no intention of missing the excitement
on deck: during the chase, which lasted no more than an hour, he toiled
dutifully in the hold, moving barrels and boxes aft in order (he understood
now) to make room for additional loot; but when the grapples were
thrown and all but a handful of the pirates crouched at the lee rail ready
to board, he climbed to the edge of the after hatch and peered over.

His heart leaped at sight of the familiar vessel: there was the quarter-deck
whereon he'd debated with Bertrand the right demeanor for a poet and
from which he'd been cast providentially into the sea; there on the poop
stood Captain Meech, grim-faced, exhorting his men as before not to
jeopardize the passengers' safety by resisting the assault, even though he
had mounted a brand new eight-pounder in the bow.

Ebenezer clucked his tongue. "Poor wretch!"

There in the waist the ladies squealed and swooned as before, while the
gentlemen, frowning nervously, were led off to their cabins for robbing;
there by the foremast the sailors huddled. Ebenezer saw several of his
molesters, including Ned, and many new faces as well. The pirates, having
been at sea for at least the six weeks since their last encounter, took no pains
to disguise their lust for the ladies and the female servants: they addressed

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 263 ]

them in the lewdest terms; pinched, poked, tweaked, and stroked. Captain
Pound had his hands full preventing wholesale assault. He cursed the crew
in his quiet hissing voice and threatened them with keelhauling if they
did not desist. Even so, the mate himself,, black Boabdil, driven nearly
berserk by the sight of an adolescent beauty who, perhaps seasick, had been
brought up on deck in her nightdress, flung her over his shoulder and made
for the railing, clearly intending to have at her in traditional pirate fashion;
it took the Captain's pistol at his temple to restrain the Moor's ardor and
send him off growling and licking his lips. The girl, happily, had fainted at
his first approach, and so was oblivious to her honor's narrow rescue.

So desperate did the situation become that at length the Captain ordered
all hands back aboard the shallop, though the pillaging was not entirely
finished, and cast off the grapples. He carried with him Captain Meech,
two members of the Poseidon's crew, and one of her longboats, giving as
his reasons the need for a consultation on the subject of longitude and the
possibility that not all of the eight-pounder's ammunition had been con-
fiscated; he would set them free, he declared, as soon as the shallop was
out of range. Then he set the still grumbling crew to stowing the fresh
provisions in preparation for the formal dividing of the spoils, and re-
treated with his hostage to the chartroom.

Now Ebenezer had of course abandoned his observation post when the
pirates came back aboard, and so dangerous was their mood that before
the first barrel of port came down the hatch he hid himself far aft, be-
hind the old cargo, to avoid their wrath. His hiding place was a wide black
cranny, perhaps three feet high, that extended on both sides of the keel
under the cabins, as far aft as the rudderpost in the stern. Since the space
provided access to the steering-cables running from the wheel on deck
through blocks to the rudderpost itself, it was provided with a false floor over
the bilge, on which the Laureate lay supine and still. Over his head, which
was not two feet from the stern, he heard the sound of chairs scraping on
the floor, and presently a pair of chuckling voices.

"By Heav'n, the black had like to split her open!" said one, and Ebene-
zer easily identified Captain Pound. "I thought he'd pitch me to the fishes
when I stopped him!"

The other laughed. "He'd ha' spitted her through for all I'd cross him,
Tom, I swear'tl Twere a pity, though, I'll grant ye; she's a gentleman's
morsel, not a beef-bull's, and I mean to try her ere we raise Lands End."

Ebenezer was not surprised to hear the voice of Captain Meech, but he
was horrified at the intimacy suggested by their conversation.

[ 264 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Do ye look for trouble?" Meech asked.

"God knows, Jim. Boabdil is a wild one when he sets his cap for coney.
They all need a week ashore, or I'm a dead man/'

"Well, I've no orders for ye about your poet, but I did bring ye this —
they smuggled it aboard at Cedar Point."

There was a pause while Meech brought forth whatever it was he re-
ferred to, then a slap as of papers on the table. Ebenezer strained his ears,
though every word thus far he had heard distinctly. He forgot completely
about the original purpose of his concealment.

"A Secret Historie of the Voiage Up the Bay of Chesapeake" Pound
read aloud. "What foolery is this?"

"No foolery," Meech laughed. "Old Baltimore would cut your throat
for't! Look on the backsides."

The papers rustled. "Tore God!"

"Aye." Meech confirmed whatever realization his friend had reached.
"They got it off Dick Smith in Calvert County— God knows howl He's
Baltimore's surveyor general."

"But what am I to do with it?"

"They said Coode himself will come fort in a month or so. This is only a
part of the whole Journal, from what I gather; if he can find the rest ere
things get settled, then Nicholson can't touch him. Right now the place is
a bedlam, Tom: ye should see St. Mary's City! Andros came and went;
Lawrence is back in; Henry Jowles hath Ninian Beale's old job; old
Robotham's back in, that hath the daughter ye liked—remember Lucy?"

"Aye," said Pound, "from the last time. She hath a birthmark on her
arse, you told me."

"Nay, Tom, no birthmark! Tis the Great Bear in freckles, I sweaft, and
the pointers point "

"No more!" Pound laughed. "I remember where the polestar was, that
all men's needles aimed at. Go on with Maryland, now, ere ye have to
leave."

"Marry, what a wench!" Meech said. "Where was I? Did I tell ye about
Andros?" He went on to relate that John Coode's brother-in-law, Neamiah
Blackistone, so influential under the late Governor Copley, had died in
disgrace last February after the Commissioners of the Customs-house, on
evidence from the "Burlingame's Journdl documents" smuggled to Lord
Baltimore by Nicholson, had charged him with graft. Sir Edmund Andros
of Virginia had returned to St. Mary's in May with Sir Thomas Lawrence,
whom Copley had impeached, and made him President of the Council

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [265]

and acting Governor of Maryland— to the rebels' dismay, since it was
Lawrence who had smuggled the notorious Assembly Journal of 1691 to
Nicholson. Then Nicholson had landed, embraced his good friend Law-
rence, and made a Maryland councillor out of Edward Randolph, the
Jacobite Royal Surveyor so well known up and down the colonies for his
prankish contempt of provincial authorities. But so far from thanking his
old superior Andros for governing in his absence, Nicholson had promptly
called that government illegal, declared null and void all statutes passed
thereunder, and demanded (thus far in vain) that Andros return the five-
hundred-pound honorarium awarded him for his services by Lawrence's
Council! The insurrectionists,. Meech declared, were making the most of
this rebuff to turn Andros against Nicholson; their leader Coode still held
with impunity the post of sheriff in St. Mary's County and a lieutenant-
colonelcy in the county militia under Lawrence himself, and in these capac-
ities drew his salary from the very government he was doing his best to
overthrow. Andros had already allowed Coode the services of his "coast-
guard" Captain Pound, of course, and in addition had virtually promised
Coode asylum in Virginia if, as was feared imminent, Nicholson opened
cases against him, his ally Kenelm Cheseldyne of the Assembly, and old
Blackistone's widow. Tlie insurrectionists, Meech said further, were en-
gaged both defensively and offensively: they were ransacking the Province
for the other portions of the incriminating Journal, which they understood
to be cached with various Papists and Jacobites, and at the same time they
were inciting the Piscataway Indians to rebel, perhaps in league with other
Indian nations.

"Many, 'tis a perilous game they play!" said Pound. "I'm happy to be
at sea!"

"I'm happy to be sailing east to London, Tom; this Coode would bum a
province on a bet. Yet he doth pay handsomely."

"Speaking whereof "

"Aye," Meech said. There was another pause. "They gave me this to
give ye for holding Cooke, and there's another like it for keeping these
papers." Nicholson had learned of the Journal's absence, he explained, and
was turning the Province upside down to find it— hence the rebels' decision
to remove it from the colony altogether until things settled down. Pound
was to cruise in his present latitude for six weeks, or until a ship came out
from Coodte to fetch the papers. At that time he would receive his fee and,
in all likelihood, instructions concerning his prisoners.

[ 266 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Good enough," said Captain Pound. "Now let me give ye your share
from the last trip."
"Did ye do well by't, Tom?"

"Not bad," Pound allowed, and added that since the terms of their
agreement gave all the cash to the pirates and all the jewels to Meech, who
could easily sell them in London, it was to be expected that on westbound
trips the pirates would fare as well or better, but on eastbound trips, when
many of the passengers would have nothing left but the family jewels,
Meech would get the lion's share. The transaction was completed; Meech
made ready to depart in the longboat, and Ebenezer, who had heard the
entire colloquy in horror and astonishment, prepared to evacuate his hiding-
place, the pirates having long since finished loading the hold.

"One more thing," Meech said, and the poet scrambled back to hear.
"If Coode hath not found the rest of his Journal by the time he fetches
this part, tell him I've a notion where to look for't, but 'twill cost him
twenty pound if he finds it there. Did ye see what's writ on the back of
all those pages?"

"You mean this Voiage Up the Bay of Chesapeake? What is it?"

Meech explained that Kenelm Cheseldyne had recorded the Journal of
the 1691 Assembly on the reverse pages of a bound quarto manuscript
provided him by Coode, which happened to be an old diary the rebel had
acquired while hiding out in Jamestown. " 'Twas a wight named Smith
wrote the diary— damnedest thing ye ever read!— and they all call it 'Smith's
book' for safety's sake, the Papists as well as the rebels, though few of 'em
e'er laid eyes on't." What would be more natural, then, he asked of Pound,
than for Baltimore to distribute the portions for safekeeping to various
confederates of the same surname?

Ebenezer began to sweat. Pound, to his great relief, laughed at the
conjecture as preposterous, but promised to relay it to Coode's agents for
what it was worth.

"Which is twenty pounds," Meech declared merrily. "Come, threaten me
to my boat, now, or they'll see our game. I'll be back with the Smoker's
Eket next spring or before."

"I'll ride the Line for ye, Jim," Pound promised— referring to the parallel
of latitude extending from the Azores to the Virginia Capes, along which
the fleets customarily sailed for ease of navigation.

Ebenezer scrambled out of his cranny, over boxes and barrels, and up
ths ladder to $ie hatch, nearly sick with indignation and excitement. He
Was bursting to tell Bertrand all he'd heard; in the considerable uproar

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 267 ]

that greeted the appearance of the two captains he was able to climb to
the deck and move forward to the fo'c'sle companionway (which led also
to his berth in the rope-locker) without attracting undue notice.

The men were indeed in mutinous spirits, ready to make trouble at the
slightest excuse. Grudgingly they released the two terrified sailors from the
Poseidon, whom they had tormented throughout the captains' private con-
versation; their faces darkened as Meech's longboat, under the barrels of
their pistols, struck out for its mother ship on the north horizon.

Ebenezer slipped through the foVsle to his cell— which customarily re-
mained unlocked— and told Bertrand the story of Meech's treachery,
Coode's latest intrigues, and the valuable document in the Captain's
quarters.

"I must lay hands on those papers!" he exclaimed. "How Coode came
by them I can't imagine, but Baltimore shall have them backl I must steal
into Pound's cabin and filch 'em ere Coode's ship comes."

Bertrand shook his head. "Marry, sir, 'tis not thy fight. A poet hath no
part in these things."

"Not so," Ebenezer replied. "I vowed to fling myself into the arms of
Life, and what is life but the taking of sides? Besides, Fve private reasons
for wanting that Journal." How pleased would Burlingame be, he reflected
happily, to learn that Captain John Smith had a secret diary! Who knew
but what these very papers were the key poor Henry so long had sought to
unlock the mystery of his parentage?

"I see those reasons plain enough," the valet declared. "The book would
fetch a pretty price if ye put it up for bids. But 'twill do ye small good to
steal it when we've no more than a fortnight left on earth. Marry, did ye
see what spirits the Moor is in? If this Coode doth not kill us, the pirates
will."

But the Laureate did not agree. "This faction may be our salvation, not
our doom." He described the delicate atmosphere on deck. "Tis Pound
that holds us prisoner, not the crew/' he said. "They've naught to gain by
killing us if they mutiny, but they may well kill him. What's more, they
know naught of the Journal. Belike they'll make us members of the crew,
and once the turmoil hath subsided I'll find a way to steal the book. Then
we can watch our chance to slip ashore. Or better, once we're pirates like
the rest we can hide aboard some ship we're sent to plunder; they'd never
miss us. Let 'em mutiny, I say; we'll join them!"

As if the last were a command, an instant later a shout went up on deck,
followed at once by a brace of pistol-shots. Ebenezer and Bertrand hurried

[ 268 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

up to declare their allegiance to the mutineers, who they readily assumed
had taken charge of the shallop, and indeed they found Boabdil at the helm,
grinning at the men assembled in the waist. But instead of lying dead on the
deck, Captain Pound stood beside him, arms crossed, a smoking pistol in
each hand and a grim smile upon his face, and it was one of the crew, a
one-eyed Carolina boy named Patch, who sprawled, face-down and bleeding,
.on the poop companionway.

"We'll put into port when I say so," Pound declared, and returned the
pistols to his sash. Two men stepped forward to retrieve their wounded
shipmate.

"Over the side with him/' the Captain ordered, and despite the fact that
he was not yet dead, the Carolinian was tumbled into the ocean.

"The next man I shan't waste a ball on," Pound threatened, and did not
even look back to see his victim flounder in the wake.

"Why is the Moor so happy?" Bertrand whispered to Ebenezer. "Ye said
he was the wrathfulest of all."

The poet, stunned by his first sight of death, shook his head and
swallowed furiously to keep from being ill.

Just then the lookout cried "Sail, ho! Sail to eastward!" The pirates
looked to see a three-master heading in their direction, but were too
chastened to display any great interest.

"There, now!" laughed Captain Pound, after examining the stranger
through his glass. "If Patch had held his peace ten minutes more, he'd not
be feeding sea-crabs! D'ye know what s'hip stands yonder, men?"

They did not, nor did the prospect of robbing it fill them with enthusi-
asm.

" Tis the London ship I've l$id for these two weeks," Pound declared,
"whilst you wretches were conspiring in the fo'c'sle! Did ye ne'er hear tell
of a brigantine called the Cy/>rwn?"

On hearing this name the crew cheered lustily, again and again. They
slapped one another's backs, leaped and danced about the deck, and at the
Captain's orders sprang as if possessed to ratlines, sheets, halyards, and
braces. Topsails and forestaysail were broken out, the helm was put hard
OVQT, and the shallop raced to meet her newest prey head-on.

"What is this Cyprian^ that changed their minds so lightly?" Bertrand
whispered.

"I do not know," his master answered, sorry to see the mutiny come to
naught. "But she hath sprung from the sea like her namesake, and haply
we'll fyave cause to love her, Lpok sharp for your chance to slip aboard; I
hope to steal the Journal if I can."

15: THE RAPE OF THE CYPRIAN; ALSO, THE TALE OF
HICKTOPEAKE, KING OF ACCOMACK, AND THE
GREATEST PERIL THE LAUREATE HAS FALLEN
INTO THUS FAR

IN LESS THAN A QUARTER OF AN HOXJR THE SHALLOP AND THE BRIGANTINE,

sailing smartly on opposite reaches, were within cannon-range of each other.
Dozens of the brigantine's passengers were crowded forward to see the
shallop, possibly the first vessel they'd met in weeks; they waved hands and
kerchiefs in innocent salutation. The pirates, every idle hand of whom was
similarly preoccupied, responded with a fearsome cry and fired a round into
the water dead ahead of their quarry. It was not until then, when the others
screamed and ran for cover, that Ebenezer began to guess in a general way
what was afoot: every one of the passengers he could see was female.

"Dear Heav'n!" he breathed.

The captain of the brigantine realized the shallop's intention and came
about to run north before the wind, at the same time firing on the attacker;
but his defense came too late. Anticipating exactly such a maneuver,
Captain Pound had his crew already stationed to follow suit, and the shallop
was under way on the new course before the brigantine finished setting her
sails. Moreover, although the several square-rigged sails of the brigantine
were better for running before the wind than the fore-and-aft rig of her
pursuer, the shallop's smaller size and lighter weight more than compen-
sated for the difference. Captain Pound ordered his men not to return the
musket- and pistol-fire; instead, taking the helm himself, he cut so close
under the brigantine's stern that the name Cyprian, on a banner held by
carved oak cupids, was plainly legible on her transom. At the very moment
when the shallop's bowsprit seemed about to pierce the victim's stern, he
veered a few degrees to starboard; the cannoneer in the bow fired a ball
point-blank into the brigantine's rudder, and the chase was over. The
Cyprian's crew scrambled to take in sail before the helpless vessel capsized.
By the time the shallop came about and retraced her course the brigantine
was rolling under bare poles in the swell; the crew stood with upraised arms,
the first mate ran a white flag up the main halyards, and the captain, hands
clasped behind him, waited on the poop deck for the worst.

[ 2JO ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

The pirates were beside themselves. They thronged to the rail, shouting
obscenities and making the lewdest gestures. It was all Boabdil could do
to bring the shallop alongside, so preoccupied were they all with their joy:
the Moor himself had stripped off all but his tall red headgear and stood
like a black nightmare at the helm. At length the grapples were made
fast, the sails struck, and the two ships lashed together along their beams,
so that they rode like mated seabirds on the waves. Then with shrieks and
howls the pirates swarmed over the rails, cursing and stumbling in their
haste. The Cyprian's crew backed off in fright, but no one paid them the
slightest attention: indeed, Captain Pound had finally to force three of his
men at pistol-point to tie them to the masts. The rest had no thought for
anything but breaking open the companionway and cabin doors, which the
terrified passengers had bolted from inside.

Their savagery made Ebenezer blanch. Beside him where he stood near
the shallop's foremast was the oldest member of the pirate crew, Carl, the
sailmaker— a wizened, evil-appearing little man in his sixties with a short,
dirty beard and no teeth at all— chuckling and shaking his head at the .scene.

"Is the ship full of women?" the Laureate asked him.

The old man nodded mirthfully. "She's the whore-boat out o' London."
Once or twice a year, he explained, the Cyprian's captain took on a load of
impoverished young ladies who were willing to prostitute themselves for
six months in the colonies, where the shortage of women was acute. The
girls were transported without charge; the enterprising captain received not
only their fares but— in the case of girls with special qualifications such as
virginity, respectability, or extreme youth or comeliness— a handsome bonus
as well from the brothel-masters who came to Philadelphia from all over
the provinces for the purpose of replenishing or augmenting their staffs. As
for the girls, some had already been prostitutes in London, others were
women rendered desperate by poverty or other circumstances, and some
simply hard-reasoning young serving girls bent on reaching America at any
cost, who found six months of prostitution more attractive than the
customary four-year indenture of the colonial servant

"Every pirate on the coast keeps his eye out for the Cyprian this time o'
year/' the sailmaker said. "There's better than a hundred wenches behind
that door. Lookee there at Boabdil!"

Ebenezer saw the naked Moor push aside his shipmates and raise a huge
maul that he had found nearby, probably teft on deck by the brigantine's
carpenter. With one blow he splintered the door and dived headlong in-

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 2JI ]

side, the others close behind him. A moment later the air was split with
screams, and curses.

Ebenezer's knees trembled. "Poor wretches! Poor wretches!"

"This!" scoffed Carl the sailmaker, and cackled at the poet's consterna-
tion. " 'Tis but a bloody prayer meeting, this is! Ye should have sailed last
year with old Tom Tew of Newport, as I did. One time we sailed from
Libertatia to the coast of Araby, and in the Red Sea we overhauled one o'
the Great Mogul's ships with pilgrims bound for Mecca; a hundred gun she
carried, but we boarded her without losing a man, and what do ye think we
found? Sixteen hundred virgins, sir! Not a maidenhead more nor less!
Sixteen hundred virgins bound for Mecca, the nicest little Moors ye e'er
laid eyes upon, and not above a hundred of us! Took us a day and a night
to pop 'em all— Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Portogeezers, Africans, and Eng-
lishmen, we were— and ere we had done, the deck Iooke4 like a butcher's
block. There is not the like o' that day and night in the history of the
lickerish world, I swear't! I cut a brace myself, for all I was coming on to
sixty— little brown twins they were, and tight as a timber-hitch, and I've
ne'er got up the old fid since!"

He rambled on, but Ebenezer could not bear to hear him out. For one
thing, the scene on deck was too arresting for divided attention: the pirates
dragged out their victims in ones and twos, a-swoon or awake, at pistol-
point or by main strength. He saw girls assaulted on the decks, on the
stairways, at the railings, everywhere, in every conceivable manner. None
was spared, and the prettier prizes were clawed at by two and three at a
time. Boabdil appeared with one over each shoulder, kicking and scratching
him in vain: as he presented one to Captain Pound on the quarter-deck,
the other wriggled free and tried to escape her monstrous fate by scrambling
up the mizzen ratlines. The Moor allowed her a fair head start and then
climbed slowly in pursuit, calling to her in voluptuous Arabic at every step.
Fifty feet up, where any pitch of the hull is materially amplified by the
height, the girl's nerve failed: she thrust bare arms and legs through the
squares of the rigging and hung for dear life while Boabdil, once he had
come up from behind, ravished her unmercifully. Down on the shallop the
sailmaker clapped his hands and chortled; Ebenezer, heartsick, turned away.

He saw Bertrand a little distance behind him, watching with undisguised
avidity, and recalled his plan. The time was propitious: every member of
the shallop's crew except old Carl was busy at his pleasure, and even
Captain Pound, who normally stood aloof from all festivities, had found

[ 272 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

the Moor's trophy too tempting to refuse and had disappeared with her
into the brigantine's cabin.

"Look sharp!" he whispered to the valet. "I'm going for the Journal now,
and then we'll try to slip aboard the Cyprian!' And ignoring Bertrand's
frightened look, he made his way carefully aft to the doorway of Captain
Pound's quarters. It required no searching to find what he sought: the
Journal lay in plain view on the table, its loose pages held fast by a fungus-
coral paperweight. Ebenezer snatched it up and scanned the first page
with pounding heart: a transcription of the Assembly's convening, mean-
ingless to him. But on the redo

"Ah!"

A Secret Historic of the Voiage Up the Bay of Chesapeake From
Jamestowne in Virginia, he read, Undertaken in the Yeer of Our Lord
1608 By C°»* Jno Smith, & Faithfullie Set Down in Its Severall Parts By
the Same. And Below, in an antique, almost illegible hand, the narrative
commenced, not as a diary at all but as a summary account, probably meant
as the initial draft of part of the. author's well-known Generall Historie of
Virginia:

Seven souldiers, six gentlemen, Dr Russell the Chirurgeon & my selfe did
embark from the towne of Kecoughtan, in Virginia^ in June of the present
yeer 1608,

To wdk a wayless Way with uncouth Pace,
Wch yet no Christian Man did ever trace. . . .

Much farther than this the poet dared not read at the moment, but he
could not refrain from thumbing rapidly through the rest of the manuscript
in search of the name Henry Burlingame. It did not take long to find:
No sooner was the King asleep, he read on an early page, then I straightway
made for the doore, and w* have fulfill'd his everie wish, had not Ld
Burlingame prevented me, and catching hold of my arme, declared, That
he did protest my doing this thing. . . .

"Burlingame a Lord!" Ebenezer exclaimed to himself, and joyfully thrust
the manuscript into his shirt, holding it fast under the waist of his breeches.
He peeped out onto the deck. All seemed clear: the only man in a position
to spy him was the Moor in the Cyprian's mizzenrigging, and he was
occupied with climbing down for further conquests, leaving his first quite
ravaged in the ratlines. The sun was setting; its long last rays lit the scene
unnaturally, from the side, with rose and gold.

"Hi ho, Master Eben!"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 273 ]

The Laureate quailed at the salute, which greeted him as soon as he
stepped out of Captain Pound's cabin. But the voice was Bertrand's.

"Stupid fellow! He'll do me in yet!" He looked for the valet in vain on
the shallop's deck: the sailmaker stood alone by the railing.

"Come along, Master Eben! Over here!" The voice came from the direc-
tion of the brigantine. Horrified, Ebenezer saw Bertrand standing in the
vessel's stern, about to have at a plump lass whom he was bending over
the taffrail, Ebenezer signaled frantically for the man to come back, but
Bertrand laughed and shook his head. "They've asked us to join 'em!" he
called, and turned to his work.

For Ebenezer to slip aboard unnoticed was unthinkable in the face of
this defection. All over the Cyprian the debauch continued; the hapless
women, gilded by the sunlight, had for the most part abandoned hope,
and instead of running, submitted to their attackers with pleas for mercy
or stricken silence. The poet shuddered and fled to his cell in the rope-
locker, determined, since he could not make his escape, to take advantage
of the diversion to read through the precious manuscript. He borrowed
a lamp from the fo'c'sle, closed the heavy door, took out the Journal, and
lay on his bed of tattered sailcloth, where he read as follows:

Seven souldiers, six gentlemen, D1* Russell the Chinirgeon & my selfe did
embark from the towne of Kecoughtan, in Virginia, in June of the present yeer
1608,

To -walk a wayless Way with uncouth Pace,
Wcl1 yet no Christian Man did ever trace. ,

We took for the voiage a barge of three tonnes burthen, to the provisioning
-whereof I earlie set the great Liverpooler Henry Burlingame, that I durst not
leave behind to smirch my name with slander & calumnie. Yet scarce had we
dropt Kecoughtan to Southward, then I found the wretch had play'd me false;
to feed the companie of fifteene men the summer long, he had supply9 d one
meager sack of weevilie oats and a barricoe of cloudie water! I enquir'd of him,
Wd he starve us? Or did he think to make me turn tayle home? Wch latter hope
I knew, he shar'd with all the idle Gentlemen his fellows. Then I set them dl
to short rations and fishing over the gunwhales, albeit I knew no means to cooke
a fish in the barge. The truth was, I reckoned on a landfall within two dayes, but
said naught of it, and what fish they caught I threw back in the Bay. I then
commenced instructing one & dl in the art of sayles & tiller, w°* matters the
souldiers took to readilie and the Gentlemen complayn'd of — none lowder then
Ld Burlingame, that I had a-bayling water from the bilge.

This Burlingame wd say to his neighbour, What doth the Captain reck it if
we perish? What time he getteth in a pickle, we Gentlemen must grubb him out,
eke some naked Salvage wench ftieth down from Heaven to save his neck. By

[ 274 I THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

woh he referr'd to Pocahontas, Powhcttans daughter, that some months past had
rescu'd me, and I saw, he meant to devill me through the voiage.

Next day we rays'd a cape of land, lying due North of Kecoughtant and the
companie rejoyc'd thereat, inasmuch as there bellies all complctyn'd of meale &
clowdie water. We made straightway to shoar, whereupon we found a pair of
fearsome Salvages, arm'd with bone-poynt speares. I made bold to salute them,
and was pleas' d to learn, they spake a tongue like Powhatans, to wch Emperour
they declar'd them selves subject. The fiercenesse of these men was in there
paynt alone; they were but spearing fish along the shallows. Upon my entreatie,
they led us to there town and to there King, that was call'd Hicktopeake.

Then follow' d an adventure, wch I cannot well include among my Histories.
I shall set it down upon these privie pages, for that it shews afresh that. enmity
I spake of, betwixt Ld Burlingame & my selfe, wch led us anon to the verie doore
of Death. . . .

"Mercy!" Ebenezer cried, and turned the page.

This Hicktopeake, then, bade us well come to his Kingdom, the woh he did
call Accomack, and lay'd before us a sumptuous meale. I observed him, while
that we ate, and I sweare him to be the comliest, proper, civill Salvage we in-
counter1 d. I din'd well, as is my wont, and also Walter the physician and the
souldiers, but our Gentlemen shew'd smalle appetyte for Salvage cookerie. Burlin-
game, in especiall, shew'd little stomacke, for a man of his corpulencie, and who
had been erst so lowd of his bellie. The meale done, Hicktopeake delivered him
selfe of a smalle speech, again bidding us well come to his towne, and offering to
replenishe our supplies ere we left him. It seem'd to me then, he shew'd a curious
eagernesse; that we shd tarrie somewhile with him, but I learn' d not the cause of it
at once.

On my enquiring of him, the extent of his Kingdom? Hicktopeake reply'd
onely that it was. of considerable breadth, and ran awaye up the countrie, untill
that the land grewe wider. This territorie he rul'd conjoyntlie with his Brother,
one Debedeavon, called by the Salvages, the Laughing King of Accomack. Debe-
deavons towne, we learn' d was farther inland, where he liv'd with his Queene in a
goodlie house. I ask'd then, Where was Hicktopeakes Queene? meaning no more
then a courtesie by my question. But seeing his face grewe all beclowded, I sought
to change the topick, and inquired, Why was Debedeavon cdl'd the Laughing
King? Whereupon, albeit I knew not why, Hicktopeakes wrath did but increase,
so that he was scarce able to contain him selfe. I sdwe no frute in farther inquirie,
and $o held my peace, and smoak'd of the tobacco that was then pa$t round.

Hicktopeake at length regayning somewhat of his controll, he did command
my partie to be given lodging for the night, and I consented, for that the skye was
lowing, and bade fowk weather. The Gentlemen and my selfe, were given place
in Hicktopeakes howse, that for all his being King, was but a single roome of large
dimension. All did forthwith set them selves to sleep, save Burlingame, who ever
hownds my steps, and sleeps not save^when I sleep also. The King & I then
smoak'd many pipes beside the fyre, in dR silence. I knew well, he was desirous of
speaking farther to me, but that after the manner of the Salvage, he tarry' d long

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 275 ]

ere commencing. For this reason I yearn9 d that Burlingame $M retyre, that we
might speake privilie, but this he wd notf maugre my hints & suggestions.

At last Hicktopeake spake, and talk'd a great -while of trifling things, as is the
Salvages -wont. Then he said, in substance (for I am here Englishing his speech] ,
Sir, ye doubtlesse mark me a batchelor, for that no wife attendeth me in my
house, or at my board, and farther, that upon thy enquirie, Where was my
Queene? I mayde thee no replie. Yet in this thou art mistaken. Queene have I in
sooth, and of surpassing comelinesse, that I have onely latelie had to wife. Yet
wife she is not, for is it not the first requirement of a wife, that she seeke not far-
ther than her wedded spouse, for her felicitie? But my Queene, she findeth me
deficient, though I mark my selfe a man in everie wise, and she goeth about un-
satisfy'd. And Queene she is not, for is it not the first requirement of a Queene,
that she doe naught but what will shewe the, greatnesse of her King? But my
Queene, from her dissatisfaction with my manlinesse, doth ever seek pleasure in
the howses of other men, thereby bringing disgrace upon my head; and stille she
goeth unsatisfy'd, by her own pronouncement. Now this is an evill thing, for that
not onely doth this woman dishonour my selfe, and keep me for ever wearie, but
also she fatigueth all the young men of my towne, and old as well. She is even as
is the leech, that having tasted bloud, can never drink his fille; or as the owle, that
devoureth all the myjce of the field, and goeth ye't hungrie to her nest. My
Brother, Debedeavon, maketh. much of this matter, and laugheth at me still
(wherefor they call him> the Laughing King). A wife he hath, that he keepeth
well satisfy' d, and hence regardeth him selfe my better, as doe his people mine.
(Yet is his wife a mowse, and lightlie filtd, for that oft have I try'd her my own
selfe, the while my brother fish'd.) Therefore 1 aske of thee of the faire skinne
this, that ye assaye to please the Queene7 or teach her to be pleas'd even with
that w°A she hath alreadie, to the end that peace & honour may reign in my
towne, and my Brother mock me no farther. For I judge of thy dresse, thy strange
vessell, and thy manlie bearing, thou art no common man, but a doer of won-
ders.

Thus spake this Hicktopeake, and I heard him with amazement, for that most
men, that cd not satisfye there wives, were loath to own there deficiencie to an-
other man. Yet I did admire his truthfullnesse & candour, & his generositie, in
inviting my selfe to attempt^ what he c* not doe. With as much of grace as I c*
muster, I accepted Hicktopeakes offer, whereupon he shew'd me a doore of his
howse, the woh he said, open'd upon the chamber of the Queene. Then he lay'd
him selfe down next the fyre and slept, onely fitfullie, as well a man might, that
hath granted leave to another to go in unto the wife of his bed.

No sooner was the King asleep, then I straightway made for the doore, and w*
have fulfilVd his everie wish, had not L* Burlingame prevented me, and catching
hold of my arme, said, That he did protest my doing this thing. I enquifd, Why
did he protest? seeing that I knew him for no Catholick Saint. Whereto he re-
ply* d, Thai be that as may, he purposed to doe the thing him selfe, for that I had
received the favours of Pocahontas, and had deftowr'd that same maide by. scurril-
ous subterfuge, whereas he had enjoy' d naught of her, nor had layn with woman,
since that he set sayle from London. Moreover, he declar'd, That SM I refuse him

[ 2j6 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

this favour (albeit he was in my debt for his scurvie life), he meant to noyse the
truth about my egg-plant receipt all over Jamestowne, and London as well.

Hereupon I told him, That he cd plough the Salvage Queene all he chose, I
car'd not, and said farther, That were she halfe the Messdina good Hicktopeake
made her out, it wd want more man then tenne of Burlingame, to pacifie her. This
said, I bow'd him to the doore, and joyn'd my mooring fellows at the fyre. Yet I
went not to sleep my owne selfe, but rested awake & smoak'd tobacco, thinking,
That in all probabilitie my nights adventures were not done.

At length Burlingame return' d, much out of humour, and upon my enquiring
of him, Was the Queen so lightlie pleas' d? he but broke wind at me, and seeing
the King stule slept, call'd her divers kinds of whoore & peddle-bumme. He w*,
he said, have gone into her, for that she had received him with friendlinesse enow,
but that when he stoode all readie to doe his carnall work, she had demanded of
him, Where was his monie? and he having naught to offer, save a parcell of to-
bacco, she straightway turn1 d upon her bellie, and wd no more of him. Whereon
he had left her.

I did laugh greatlie at this tale, and said to him, that he wd ever fare iU in con-
quests of women, for that he was put off so lightlie. And it was a happie thing, for
both our heads, that Powhatan erst had set my selfe to pierce his daughters nether
armour, and not him. By way of answer, Burlingame but broke wind againe, and
said, That if I wish'd to make good my boasts, the doore was yet unlatch* d, and
the Queene yet flatt upon the grownd. For him, he w* nothing farther of the
whoore, be she Queene or scullerie maide.

I hifd me then without losse of time to the Queenes apartment, leaving
Burlingame at the fyre to stewe in his owne cowardice. Directlie my. eyes grewe
us'd to the dark, I made out the Queene her selfe, once more upon her back. She
was a passing comelie Salvage, I C* see, with gracious features, shapelie limbs, and
a smalle flatt bellie, and her papps & other appurtenancies were such, as to whett
any mans lust Upon her directing me, in Salvage jargon, to doe my wille,
I prick d up like a doggs eare, at smelle of meate. I presented my selfe as Ca*>* J7*0
Smith of Virginia, deeming it a beastlie thing, to swive a woman without first ex-
changing cordialities. But to this she pay'd no heed a all, onely shew'd me, by cer-
taine movements, she mark'd such pleasantries a waste of time. Therefore I
hasten' d to undoe mytselfe, and had clipp'd her on the instant, but that she stay'd
my ardour; and pointing to that place, the wc7t she had in Salvage fashion pluck9 d
bald as a biskett & bedawb'd with puccoon paynt, she demanded first some pay-
ment, saying, That she was not wont to bestowe her charms for naught.

This troubled me not a whitt, for that I was us'd to dealing with both whoores
& Salvages. I fetch'd up my breeches, and withdrewe therefrom a fistfull of
bawbles, that ever charme the Salvage eye. These I gave her, but she flung them
awaye, and demanded something more. I gave her then a\ smalle charme, that I
had got from a dead Moor, the woh was said to have magick powers, but this
neither she deign' d to accept After that I offered the slutt a lewd figure done in
ivorie, a smalle coyne inscribed in filthie Arabick, and the pledge of twelve yardes
of Scotch cloth, to be deliver' d on the next boat from London — all to no avdle.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 277 ]

She w* have six lengths of wompompeag, she sdd, or nine of roanoke, for her
favours, and naught besides, for that her other lovers were wont to pay that
summe for her bodie, she being the Queene. I made replye, That I had no Sal-
vage monies on my person, nor meanes of acquiring any, but wd she grant me sat-
isfaction of my lust, I wd send her a pound Sterling from Jamestowne, enough
coyn to purchase a bakers dozen tarts in London. But the Queene w* none of my
pound Sterling, and rolling on her bellie, let goe a fart w071 had done honour to
Elizabeth her selfe. I did declare, That Cw* j™ Smith was not put off so lightlief
and when that she reply1 d as before, I vow'd to have my fille of her regardlesse.
There is a saying amongst the worldlie French, that when a man cannot eate
thrush, he must perforce make doe with crowe. I tarryrd no longer, but straight-
way work'd upon the Queene that sinne, for w°h the Lord rayn'd fyre upon the
Cities of the.Playne. ...

When that I had done, I drewe away and waited for the Queene to catt
her bodie-guards to fetch me, u^ I suppos'd she wd forthwith. For a space she lay
a-panting on the grownd, and when at last she had her winde, tooke from her
necke tenne strings of wompompeag, wch she presented me. She then declared,
That she had got love enow that night, to give her payne till the new moone. So
saying, she felle into a swoone-like sleep, and I retired to the other roome, to chide
Burlingame for his want of fancie. This he took in his wonted ill humour, for that
I had the better of him yet againe. . . „

I did sleep late into the daye, and when I woke, found Hicktopeake in his royall
chaire, with all his Lieutenants round about. He had bade them be silent, the
while I slept, and on my rowsing up came forward, and embraced me, and declared
I SM be second in rule over his towne, and have the comeliest Salvage of his tribe
to wife, for that I had restored his peoples peace. I enquired, How was that so? &nd
he made answer, That the Queene had come to him that dawne, and beggd for^
givenesse for her infidelitie, and swore that so satisfy' d was she of me, she never
w* againe goe a-roving from the Kings bedstead. Onely, he said, he fear'd her re-
solve might not endure for long; it must needs have been by meanes of some un-
common virilitie I had pleased her, and I was leaving his towne anon.

With that I led him aside, and related to him privilie the simple trick I had
employ' d, assuring him, that he cd doe the thing as well as 1. For so smalle was the
puddle, any frogg seem'd greate therein. Hicktopeake had never heard of such a
practice (w*h I had learnt from the scurvie Arabs) , and he listened in amazement.
Naught w* then suffice but he must put his learning to the test, and so he hi'd
him selfe apace from out the roome.

While that he was gone thus a-wooing, I gather9 d together my compcmie, and
told them to make readie our vessell, for I design' d to sayle that selfe same morn-
ing, to take up the course of our explorations. They did set to at once, all save
Burlingame, that grows' d about the shoarline kicking pebbles, and we were neare
readie to sayle, when Hicktopeake came out from his howse. He embfac'd me
dgaine, this time more warmlie then before, and beggd me stay in his towne for
ever, as his Prince & successor. So had he woo'd the Queene, he said, she w* be
three days rysing from her bed, and costive the week. But I declined his offer,
saying, That I had business elsewhere to attend. After much debate he did re-

[ 278 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

signe him selfe, and gave me leave to goe, presenting, me & my companie with.dl
manner of Salvage gifts, and food & water for our vesselL

Thus at last we did set sayle once more, and headed for the maine, and what-
ever lay before us. I was a trifle loath to goe, and wd fain have tarry1 d some smdle
space, for that Hicktopeake did declare to me his intention, of journeying to the
towne of Debedeavon his Brother, and there so ploughing Debedeavons Queene,
after the manner he had learnt, as to confound his Brother for ever. Whereupon
he, Hicktopeake, s™ be the Laughing King of Accomack. W°*> forsooth were worth
the witnessing. But the favour of Kings is a slipperie boone, lightlie granted & as
lightlie forsworne, and I deem'd it more prudent to absent my selfe betimes,
while that I was yet in his good graces, then to linger, and perchance weare out
my welcome there in Accomack. . . .

Here ended the narrative, or what fragment of it Meech had brought
aboard. Ebenezer read it again, and a third time, hoping to find in it some-
thing to connect Henry Burlingame with his luckless namesake in the story.
But there was every indication that Captain Smith's antagonist, who Henry
hoped would prove to be his ancestor, was not only childless but un-
married, and his future with the company of explorers was far from promis-
ing. With a sigh the Laureate assembled the pages of the Journal and con-
cealed it under his sailcloth bed, where no one was likely to find it. Then
he extinguished the lantern and sat for some while in the dark. The naked
sounds of rape, floating through the shallop's foVsle, conjured pictures clear
enough to make him shiver. Together with the story in the manuscript—
which was as much a revelation to him as it had been to Hicktopeake—
they forced his reverie willy-nilly into a single channel, and before long he
found himself physically moved by desire. He could not in honesty assert
that his pity for the Cyprian girls was unambiguous, or his condemnation
of their assault wholehearted; if he had been shocked by the spectacle,
he had also been excited by it, and so fascinated that no lesser business
than that of the Journal could have summoned him away. Indeed, the
sight of the young girl trapped in the rigging like a fly in a web, and of
Boabdil climbing leisurely up to envelop her like a great black spider, had
aroused him as its memory aroused him now.

It was abundantly clear to him that the value of his virginity was not a
moral value, even as he had explained to Bertrand one day on the Poseidon.
But the mystic ontological value he had ascribed to it seemed less convincing
now than it had seemed then. The recollection of Joan Toast's visit to his
room,, for example, which was customarily dominated by his speech at her
departure or the hymn to virginity composed afterwards, stopped now at
the memory of the girl herself, sitting pertly on his bed, and would go no

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 279 ]

farther. She had leaned forward and embraced him where he knelt before
her: her breasts had brushed like cool silk on his forehead; his cheek had
lain against the cushion of her stomach; his eyes had lingered close to The
Mystery!

From outside came another cry, a hard, high protest that trailed into
lamentation. There was an ancient ring to it, an antique sorrow, that put
the poet in mind of Philomela, of Lucretia, of the Sabine virgins and the
daughters of Troy, of the entire wailing legion of the raped. He went to
the companionway, and climbing it looked skyward at the stars. How
trifling was the present scene to them, who had watched the numberless
wars of men, the sack of nations, and the countless lone assaults in field
and alley! Was there a year in time when their light had not been dimmed,
somewhere on earth, by the flames of burning cities? That instant when he
stepped out on the deck, how many women heard— in England, Spain, and
far Cipango— the footfall of the rapist on the stair, or in the path behind?
The ranks of women ravished, hundreds and thousands and millions strong,
of every age and circumstance— the centuries rang and echoed with their
cries; the dirt of the planet was watered with their tears!

The scene aboard the Cyprian was considerably less violent now, though
by no means tranquil. Around the masts her crew were still tied fast, and
watched the festivities in sullen silence; thus far none had been harmed.
The pirates, their first lust spent, had broken out the rum and were fast
succumbing to it. Already some lay senseless in the scuppers; others
sprawled with their prizes on the decks and cabin roofs, taking drinks and
liberties by turn, but no longer able to consummate their wooing; still others
had lost interest altogether in the women— they danced, sang bawdy songs,
or played ombre under lanterns in the balmy air, almost as on any other
evening at sea. From the cabins came the sound of more carousing, but not
of violence: two girls, it seemed, were being obliged to perform some trick
against their will, and Ebenezer heard several women join in the general
laughter and encouragement.

"So lightly they accept their fate!" He thought again of the Trojan
widows, advised by Hecuba to resign themselves without protests to being
concubines and slaves.

The least enviable lot, so far as he could see, was that of seven ladies
trussed hip to hip over the Cyprian's starboard rail in classic pirate fashion,
so that their heads and upper bodies hung over the somewhat lower shallop;
yet even these, despite the indignity and clear discomfort of their position,
were not entirely overwhelmed with misery. One, it is true, appeared to

[280] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

be weeping, though she was not being molested at the moment, and
two others stared expressionless at their arms, which were lashed at the
wrist to the bottom of the balusters; but the others were actually gos-
siping with Carl the sailmaker, who smoked his pipe on the shallop's deck
before them! At sight of Ebenezer, who came up beside him, they were
not in the least abashed.

"Oh dear," said one, feigning alarm, "here comes another!"

"Ah, now, he seems a likely lad," said her neighbor, who was older. "Ye'd
not do aught unchivalrous,, would ye, son?"

Even as they laughed, a drunken pirate reeled up behind them.

"Ouch!" cried the one to whom he made his presence known. "Tell him,
Carl, 'tis not my turn! Hi! The wretch takes me for a roast of mutton! Tell
him, Carl!"

The sailmaker, by reason of his age, had some authority among his ship-
mates. "Have at some other, matey," he advised. The pirate obligingly
moved to the tearful youngster on the end, who at his first touch gave a cry
that pierced Ebenezer to the heart.

"Nay, ye blackguard* don't dare jilt me!" cried the woman first molested.
"Come hither to one that knows what's what!"

"Aye, leave the child in peace," another scolded. "I'll show ye how 'tis
done in Leicestershire!" Aside to her companions she added, "Pray God
'tis not the Moor!"

"Ye asked fort," said the pirate, and returned to his original choice.

"Marry, there's a good fellow!" she cried, pretending pleasure. "'Sheart,
what a stone-horse, girls!" To her neighbor she said in a stage whisper, " Tis
not the Moor by half, but Grantham gruel: nine grits and a gallon o' water.
Aiel Gramercy, sir! Gramercyl"

The other three were highly entertained.

"Your friend is yonder in the cabin," Carl said to Ebenezer. "Hop to't
if ye've a mind for the ladies, for we shan't tarry here much longer."

"Indeed?" Ebenezer shifted uncomfortably; the women were regarding
him with interest. "Perhaps I'd better see what mischief Bertrand is about."

"Ah, 'sblood, he doth not care for us," one of the women said. "He likes
his friend better." The rest took up the tease, even the one being wooed,
and Ebenezer beat a hasty retreat.

"I cannot fathom it," he said to himself.

Though he had dismissed entirely the notion of stowing away aboard
the Cyprian and had little or no interest in his valet's present activities, he
borrowed courage enough from those two motives to board the brigantine,

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 281 ]

having first walked aft to escape the women's remarks. He could not deny,
however, his intention to stroll bgck in their direction from the vantage
point of the Cyprian's deck, at least out of curiosity. He climbed to the
rail and grasped the brigantine's mizzen shrouds to pull himself over.
When by chance he happened to look aloft, the moonlight showed him a
surprising sight: high in the mizzen-rigging the Moor's first conquest still
hung, forgotten by all; her arms and legs stuck through as though in stocks.
One could not judge her condition from below: perhaps she maintained
her perch out of fear, hoping to escape further assault; or it could be she
was a-swoon— her position would keep her from falling. Neither was it im-
possible that she was dead, from the bite of her great black spider. Assuring
himself that only his curiosity wanted satisfying, but in a high state of
excitement nonetheless, Ebenezer swung his feet not to the deck of the
Cyprian but onto the first of the mizzen ratlines, and methodically, in the
manner of Boabdil, climbed skyward to the dangling girl. . . .

His ascent caused the shrouds to tremble; the girl stirred, peered down-
wards, and buried her face with a moan. The poet, positively dizzied with
desire, made crooning noises in her direction.

"I shall have at thee, lass! I shall have at thee!"

When he had got but halfway up, however, Captain Pound stepped out
from the cabin below, and the Moor ordered all hands back to the shallop.
The men responded with loud protests but nevertheless obeyed, taking
desperate final liberties as they went. Ebenezer doubled his rate of climb.

"I shall have at thee!"

But Boabdil's voice came up from below. "You in the mizzen-rig! Down
with ye, now! Snap to't!"

The girl was literally within reach, but to no avail. "Thou'rt a lucky
wench!" he called up boldly.

The girl looked down at him. In the moonlight, from the present dis-
tance, she bore some slight resemblance to Joan Toast, the recollection of
whom had fired his original desire. There was a look of horror on her face.

Weak with excitement, Ebenezer called out to her again: "A minute
more and I had split thee!"

She hid her face, and he climbed down. A few minutes later the pirates
had cast off the grapples and were doing their best to make sail. Looking
back over the widening stretch of ocean, Ebenezer saw the women of the
Cyprian untie their colleagues at the rail and set free the crew. Up in the
mizzen-rigging he could still discern the white figure of the girl, his desire

[ 282 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

for whom, unsatisfied, began already to discommode him. The relief he
felt at the accidental rescue of his essence was, though genuine, not nearly
so profound a sensation as had been his strange possession in the rigging,
which he could not begin to understand. Surely,, he insisted, there was
more to it than simple concupiscience: if not, why did the thought
of the Moor's attack, for example, make him nearly ill with jealousy?
Why had he chosen the girl in the ratlines instead of those along the rail?
Why had her resemblance to Joan Toast (which for that matter he
may only have fancied) inflamed rather than cooled his ardor? His whole
behavior in the matter was incomprehensible to him.

He turned away and made for his cell in the rope-locker, both to assure
himself of the safety of his precious manuscript and in some manner to
alleviate, if he could, his growing pain. Even as he lowered himself down
the foVsle companionway a sharp, shrill female cry rang out through the
darkness from the brigantine's direction, followed by another and a third.

"Their turn, now," said someone on the shallop, and a number of the
pirates chuckled. The blood rushed from Ebenezer's brain; he swayed on
the ladderway and found it necessary to pause a moment, his forehead
pressed against an upper rung.

"She's but a whore; a simple whore/' he said to himself, and was obliged
to repeat the words several times before he could proceed with his descent.

Whether because he thought he had put it away for safekeeping before
boarding the Cyprian or because he was too drunk on returning to notice
its absence, Captain Pound did not disclose the loss of the Journal fragment
until after noon of the following day, by which time Ebenezer had found
an even better hiding-place for it. Thinking it imprudent to trust his valet
too far, he had waited until Bertrand went on deck that morning and
had then transferred his prize from under his pallet to a fold in the canvas
of a brand new sail which lay at the bottom of a pile of others on a large
shelf near at hand. Thus when in the afternoon he and Bertrand stripped
to the skin with the rest of the crew and stood by while Boabdil and the
Captain combed the ship, he was not alarmed to see them throw aside the
rag-beds in his cell: for them to unfold and refold every spare sail on the
shelf would have been unthinkable. After a two-hour search failed to dis-
cover the manuscript, Captain Pound concluded that someone from the
Cyprian had sneaked aboard to steal it. All that day and the next the pirates
raced to find the brigantine again, until the sight of Cape Henlopen and

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [283]

Delaware Bay put an end to the chase and forced them back to the safety
of the open sea.

His loss made the Captain daily more sour and irascible. His suspicion
naturally fell heaviest on Ebenezer and Bertrand: though he had no reason
to believe that either had prior knowledge of the Journal's presence on the
ship and no evidence that either had stolen it— both had been seen aboard
the Cyprian, for example— he nevertheless confined them to their cell again,
out of ill humor. At the same time he had the Moor lay ten stripes on the
sailmaker's aged back as punishment for failing to see the thief: the flogging
could be heard in the rope-locker, and Ebenezer had to remind himself,
uncomfortably, that the manuscript was exceedingly valuable to the cause
of order and justice in Maryland. To Bertrand, who had nearly swooned
during the search of their quarters, he declared that he had thrown the
Journal into the sea for fear of discovery, and that old Carl was after all a
pirate whom any judge ashore would doubtless hang.

"Nonetheless," he added resolutely, "should I hear they mean to kill or
torture anyone for't, even that loathesome beast Boabdil, I shall confess."
Whether he would in fact,, he did not care to wonder; he made the vow
primarily for Bertrand's sake, to forestall another defection.

"Small difference whether ye do or no," the valet answered, "Our time's
nigh up in either case." He was, indeed, perilously disheartened; from the
first he had been skeptical of Ebenezer's plan to escape, and even that long
chance was precluded by their present confinement. In vain did Ebenezer
point out that it was Bertrand who, by his conduct aboard the Cyprian,
had spoiled their best opportunity to escape: such truths are never con-
solations.

Their prospects darkened as the day of the shallop's scheduled rendez-
vous approached. They heard the crew in the fo'c'sle complain of the
Captain's mounting severity: three had been put on short rations for no
greater crime than that Pound had overheard them comparing notes on
the Cyprian women; a fourth, who as spokesman for the group had in-
quired how soon they would put into some port, had been threatened with
keelhauling. Daily the two prisoners feared that he would take it into his
head to put them to some form of torture. The one bright happenstance of
the entire period, both for the crew and for Ebenezer, was the news that
the Moor, whom they had come to resent for executing the Captain's orders,
had been blessed by one of his victims on the brigantine with a social
disease.

"Whether 'tis French pox or some other, I don't know," said the man

[284] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

who had the news, "but he is sore as a boil oft and cannot walk to save him/'
Ebenezer readily assumed that it was the girl in the mizzen-rigging who
had been infected, for though Boabdil had assuredly not confined his exer-
cise to her, none of the other pirates showed signs of the malady. The
disclosure gave him a complexly qualified pleasure: in the first place he
was glad to see the Moor thus repaid for the rape, yet he quite understood
the oddity of this emotion in the light of his own intentions. Second, the re-
lief he felt at so narrowly escaping contagion himself, like the relief at
having his chastity preserved for him, failed to temper his disappointment as
he thought it should. And third, the presence of infection suggested that the
girl had not been virginal, and this likelihood occasioned in him the follow-
ing additional and not altogether harmonious feelings: chagrin at having
somewhat less cause to loathe the Moor and relish his affliction; disap-
pointment at what he felt to be a depreciation of his own near-conquest;
alarm at the implication of this disappointment,, which seemed to be that
his motives for assaulting the girl were more cruel than even the Moor's,
who would not have assumed her to be virginal in the first place; awe at
the double perversity that though his lust had been engendered at least
partially by pity for what he took to be a deflowered maiden, yet he felt in
his heart that the pity was nonetheless authentic and would have been
heightened, not diminished, during his own attack on her, whereas the
revelation that she had not lost her maidenhead to Boabdil materially
diminished it; and finally, a sort of overarching joy commingled with relief
at a suspicion that seemed more probable every time he reviewed it— the
suspicion that his otherwise not easily accountable possession by desire,
contingent as it had been on the assumption of her late deflowering
and his consequent pity, was by the very perverseness of that contingency
rendered almost innocent, an affair as it were between virgins. This mystic
yearning of the pure to join his ravished sister in impurity: was it not, in
fact, self-ravishment, and hence a variety of love?
'Very likely/' he concluded, and chewed his index fingernail for joy.
How Captain Pound explained his dereliction, the Laureate never
learned. The six weeks ran their course; well after dark on the appointed
day the prisoners heard another ship saluted by the pirates, and the sound
of visitors brought aboard from a longboat. Whatever the nature of the
parley, it was brief: after half an hour the guests departed. All hands were
ordered aloft, and into the rope-locker came the sounds of the pirates mak-
ing sail in the gentle breeze. As soon as the shallop gained steerage-way the
acting first mate— none other than the boatswain impressed from the

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 285 ]

Poseidon, who had so rapidly and thoroughly adjusted to his new circum-
stances that Pound appointed him to replace the ailing Moor— climbed
down into the fo'c'sle, unlocked the door of the brig, and ordered the
prisoners on deck.

"Aie!" cried Bertrand. "'Tis the end!"

"What doth this mean?" the Laureate demanded.

"'Tis the end! Tis the end!"

" Tis the end o' thy visit," the boatswain grumbled. "I'll say that much/'

"Thank Heav'n!" Ebenezer cried. "Is't not as I said, Bertrand?"

"Up with ye, now."

"One moment," the poet insisted. "I beg you for a moment alone, sir,
ere I go with you. I must give thanks to my Savior." And without waiting
for reply he fell to his knees in an attitude of prayer.

"Ah, well, then " The boatswain shifted uncertainly, but finally

stepped outside the cell. "Only a moment, though; the Captain's in foul
spirits."

As soon as he was alone Ebenezer snatched the Journal manuscript from
its hiding-place nearby and thrust it into his shirt. Then he joined Bertrand
and the boatswain.

"I am ready, friend, and to this cell bid Adieu right gladly. Is't a boat
hath come for us, or are we so near shore? 'Sblood, how this lifts my heart!"

The boatswain merely grunted and preceded them up the companionway
to the deck, where they found a mild and moonless mid-September night.
The shallop rode quietly under a brilliant canopy of stars. All hands were
congregated amidships, several holding lanterns, and greeted their ap-
proach with a general murmur. Ebenezer thought it only fit that he bid
them farewell with a bit of verse, since all in all they had, save for the past
six weeks, treated him quite unobjectionably: but there was not time to
compose, and all he had in stock, so to speak (his notebook having -been
left behind, to his great sorrow, on the Poseidon) was a little poem of
welcome to Maryland that he had hatched at sea and committed to
memory— unhappily not appropriate to the occasion. He resolved therefore
to content himself with a few simple remarks, no less well turned for their
brevity, the substance of which would be that while he could not approve
of their way of life, he was nonetheless appreciative of their civil regard for
himself and his man. Moreover, he would conclude, what a man cannot
condone he may yet forgive: Many a deed that the head reviles finds
absolution in the heart; and while he could not but insist,, should they ever
be apprehended at their business, that their verdict be just, he could pray

[286] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

nonetheless, and would with his whole heart, that their punishment be
merciful.

But it was not his fortune to deliver himself of these observations, for
immediately upon reaching the gathering he and Bertrand were set upon
by the nearest pirates and held fast by the arms. The group separated into
a double column leading to the larboard rail, from the gangway of which,
illuminated by the flickering lanterns, the prisoners saw a plank run out
some six feet over the sea.

"Nay!" Ebenezer's flesh drew up in goose bumps. "Dear God in
Heav'n!"

Captain Pound was not in sight, but somewhere aft his voice said "On
with't." The grim-faced pirates drew their cutlasses and held them ready;
Ebenezer and Bertrand, at the inboard end of the gauntlet, were faced
toward the plank, released, and at the same moment pricked from behind
with swords or knives to get them moving.

"From the first, gentlemen, I have been uncertain which of you is
Ebenezer Cooke," said Captain Pound. "I know now that the twain of you
are impostors. The real Ebenezer Cooke is in St. Mary's City, and hath
been these several weeks."

"Nay!" cried the poet, and Bertrand howled. But the ranks of steel blades
closed behind them, and they were shortly teetering on the plank. Below
them the black sea raced and rustled down the freeboard; Ebenezer saw it
sparkle in tie flare of the lanterns and fell to his knees, the better to clutch
at the plank. No time for a parting song like that of Arion, whose music had
summoned dolphins to his rescue. In two seconds Bertrand, farther out-
board, lost his balance and fell with a screech into the water.

"Jump!" cried several pirates.

"Shoot him!" others urged.

'TGodI" wailed Ebenezer, and allowed himself to tumble from the plank.

16: THE LAUREATE AND BERTRAND, LEFT TO DROWN,
ASSUME THEIR NICHES IN THE HEAVENLY PANTHEON

FOR BETTER OR WORSE, THE LAUREATE FOUND THE WATER WARM; THE

initial shock of immersion was gone by the time he scrabbled to the surface,
and when he opened his eyes he saw the lights of the shallop's stern,, already

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [287]

some yards distant, slipping steadily away. But despite the moderate
temperature of the water his heart froze. He could scarcely comprehend
his position: uppermost in his mind was not the imminence of death at all,
but that last declaration of Captain Pound's, that the real Ebenezer Cooke
was in St. Mary's City. Another impostor! What marvelous plot, then, was
afoot? There was of course the possibility that Burlinganie, so clever at
disguises, had arrived safely and found it useful to play the poet, the further
to confound Coode. But if he had learned of Ebenezer's capture from
passengers on the Poseidon, as one would suppose, surely he understood
that assuming his identity would jeopardize his friend's life; and if instead
he believed his ward and prot£g6 dead, it was hard to imagine him having
the heart for imposture. No, more likely it was Coode himself who was
responsible. And to what evil purpose would his name be turned? Ebenezer
shuddered to think. He kicked off his shoes, the better to stay afloat; the
precious manuscript too he reluctantly cast away, and began treading water
as gently as possible so as to conserve his strength.

But for what? The hopelessness of his circumstances began to make itself
clear. Already the shallop's lights were small in the distance, obscured by
every wave; soon they would be gone entirely, and there were no other
lights. For all he knew he was in mid-Atlantic; certainly he was scores of
miles from land, and the odds against another ship's passing even within
sight by daylight were so great as to be unthinkable. Moreover, the night
was young: there could be no fewer than eight hours before dawn, and
though the seas were not rough, he could scarcely hope to survive that
long.

"I'faith, I am going to die!" he exclaimed to himself. "There is no other
possibility!"

This was a thing he had often pondered. Always, in fact— ever since his
boyhood days in St. Giles, when he and Anna played at saints and Caesars
or Henry read them stories of the past— he had been fascinated by the aspect
of death. How must the cutpurse feel, or the murderer, when he mounts the
stairway to the gibbet? The falling climber, when he sees the rock that
will dash out brains and bowels? In the night, between their bedchambers,
he and his sister had examined eveiy form of death they knew of and
compared their particular pains and horrors. They had even experimented
with death: once they pressed the point of a letter knife into their breasts as
hard as they dared, but neither had had the courage to draw blood; another
time each had tried being throttled by the other, to see who could go the
farthest without crying out, But the best game of all was to see who could

[ 288 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

hold his breath longer; to see, specifically, whether either was brave enough
to hold it to the point of unconsciousness. Neither had ever reached that
goal, but competition carried their efforts to surprising lengths: they would
grow mottled, their eyes would bulge, their jaws clench, and finally would
come the desperate explosion of breath that left them weak. There was a
terrible excitement about this game; no other came so close to the feel of
death, especially if in the last frantic moments one imagined himself buried
alive, drowning, or otherwise unable to respire at will. That speculation
made one wild; the breath roared out. It was a sport too moving, too up-
setting, to play often.

It is not surprising, therefore, that however unparalleled in his experience,
Ebenezer's present straits were by no means novel to his imagination.
Death by drowning was a consideration intimately bound up with the
breath-holding game, one they had several times explored. Even the details
of stepping from the plank at night, clawing from the depths for air, and
watching the stern lights slip away they had considered, and Ebenezer al-
most knew ahead of time how tie end would feel: water catching the
throat and stinging the nose, the convulsive coughing to expel it, and the
inevitable reinspiration of air where no air was,, the suck of water into
the lungs; then vertigo, the monstrous pressure in head and chest, and
worst of all the frenzy, the anxiety of the body not to die, that total
mindless lust for air which must in the last seconds rend body and soul
unspeakably. When he and Anna chose their deaths, drowning— along with
burning, slow crushing, and similar protracted agonies— was disqualified at
once, and the news that anyone had actually suffered such an end would
thrill them to the point of dizziness. But in his heart the fact of death and
all these senuous anticipations were to Ebenezer like the facts of life and the
facts of history and geography, which, owing to his education and natural
proclivities, he looked at always from the storyteller's point of view: notion-
ally he admitted its finality; vicariously he sported with its horror; but never,
never could he redly embrace either. That lives are stories, he assumed;
that stories end, he allowed— how else could one begin another? But that

the storyteller himself must live a particular tale and die Unthinkable!

Unthinkable!

Even now, when he saw not the slightest grounds for hope and knew
that the dread two minutes must be on him soon, his despair was as notional,
his horror as vicarious, as if he were in his chamber in St. Giles playing the
dying-game, or acting out a story in the summ^rhouse. Bertiand, he as-
sumed with some envy, had strangled on his water and was done with it;

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 289 ]

there was no reason why he himself should not get it over with at once.
But it was not simply fear that kept him paddling; it was also the same
constitutional deficiency that had made him unable to draw his own blood,
will himself unconscious, or acknowledge in his heart that there really had
been a Roman Empire. The shallop was gone. Nothing was to be seen
except the stars, or heard except the chuckle of water around his neck, yet
his spirit was almost calm.

Presently he heard a thrashing in the sea nearby; his heart pounded. " Tis
a shark!" he thought, and envied Bertrand more than ever. Here was some-
thing that had not occurred to him! Why had he not drowned himself at
once? The thing splashed nearer; another wave and they were in the same
trough. Even as Ebenezer struck out in the opposite direction, his left leg
brushed against the monster.

"Aief he shrieked, and "Nay!" cried the other, equally alarmed.

"Dear God!" said Ebenezer, paddling back. "Is't you, Bertrand?"

"Master Eben! Praise be, I thought 'twas a sea-serpent! Thou'rt not
drowned?"

They embraced each other and came up sputtering.

"Get on with't, or we shall be yet!" the poet said, as happy as though his
valet had brought a boat. Bertrand observed that it was but a matter of time
after all, and Ebenezer replied with feeling that death was not so terrible
in company as alone.

"What say you/' he proposed, in the same spirit wherewith he had used
to propose the breath-game to Anna: "shall we have done with't now, to-
gether?"

"In any case 'twill not be many minutes," Bertrand said. "My muscles
fail me already."

"Look yonder, how the stars are darkened out." Ebenezer pointed to a
lightless stretch on the western horizon. "At least we'll not need to weather
that storm."

"Not I, 'tis certain." The valet's breath came hard from the exertion of
paddling. "Another minute and I'm done."

"Howe'er you've injured me before, friend, I forgive you. We'll go to-
gether."

"Ere the moment comes," Bertrand panted, "I've a thing to say, sir "

"Not sir/" cried the poet. "Think you the sea cares who's master and
man?"

"—'tis about my gambling on the Poseidon" Bertrand continued.

[ 2QO ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Long since forgiven! You lost my money: I pray you had good use oft!
What need have I of money now?"

"There's more, sir. You recall the Parson Tubman offered odds "

"Forgiven! What more's to lose, when you had plucked me clean?"

But Bertrand would not be consoled. "What a wretch I felt, sir! I
answered to your name, ate at your place, claimed the honors of your
post "

"Speak no more oft!"

"Methought Tis he should tumble Lucy on these sheets, not I, and then
I lost your forty pound as well! And you, sir, in a hammock in the fo'c'sle,
suffering in my place!"

" Tis over and done," Ebenezer said kindly.

"Hear me out, sir! When that fearful storm was done and we were
westering, I vowed to myself I'd have ye back that money and more, to pay
ye for your hardship. The Parson had got up a new swindle on raising the
Virginia Capes, and I took a notion to woo Miss Lucy privily to my cause.
Then we would fleece the fleecer!"

" 'Tis a charitable resolve, but you'd naught to use for stakes "

"Nor did some others that had been gulled," Bertrand replied. "They
threatened to take a stick to Tubman for all he was a cleric. But he smelled
what was in the wind, and gave 'em a chance to bet again on Maryland.
They'd but to pledge some property or other "

"I'faith!" cried Ebenezer. "His cassock frocked a very Jew!"

"He had the papers drawn like any lawyer: we'd but to sign, and we
could wager to the value of the property."

"You signed a pledge?" Ebenezer asked incredulously.

"Aye, sir."

"Dear God! To what?"

"To Maiden, sir. I "

"To Maiden!" Such was the poet's amazement he forgot to paddle, and
the next wave covered his head. When he could speak again he demanded,
"Yet surely 'twas no more than a pound or two?"

"I shan't conceal it, sir; 'twas rather more."

"Ten pounds, then? Twenty? Ha, out with't, fellow! What's forty pounds
more to a drowning man? What is't to me if you lost a hundred?"

"My very thought, sir," Bertrand said faintly; his strength was almost
gone. "'Twas e'en for that I told ye, now we're drowning men. Lookee
how the dark comes closer! Methinks I hear the sea rising yonder, too,
but I shan't be here to feel the rain. Farewell, sir."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 291 ]

"Wait!" Ebenezer cried, and clutched his servant by one arm to help
support him.

'Tin done, sir; let me go/'

"And I, Bertrand; I shall go with thee! Was't two hundred you lost,
pray?"

" Twas but a pledge, sir/' Bertrand said. "Who's to say I lost a farthing?
For aught I know thou'rt a wealthy man this moment."

"What did you pledge, man? Three hundred pounds?"

Bertrand had stopped treading water and would have gone under had
not Ebenezer, paddling furiously, held him up with one hand by the shirt
front.

"What doth it matter, sir? I pledged it all,"

"AZZ/"

"The grounds, the manor, the sot-weed in the storehouse— Tubman holds
it all."

"Pledged my legacy!"

"Prithee let me drown, sir, if ye won't yourself."

"I shall!" said Ebenezer. "Sweet Maiden gone? Then farewell, and God
forgive you!"

"Farewell, sir!"

"Stay, I am with thee yet!" Master and man embraced each other. "Fare-
well! Farewell!"

"Farewell!" Bertrand cried again, and they went under. Immediately both
fought free and struggled up for air.

"This will not do!" Ebenezer gasped. "Farewell!"

"Farewell!" said Bertrand. Again they embraced and went under, and
again fought free.

"I cannot do't," said Bertrand, "though my muscles scarce can move,
they bring me up." .

"Adieu, then," said the poet grimly. "Thy confession gives me strength
to die alone. Farewell!"

"Farewell!"

As before, Ebenezer automatically took a deep breath before sinking
and so could not do more than put his face under. This time, however,
his mind was made up: he blew out the air, bade the world a last farewell*
and sank in earnest.

A moment later he was up again, but for a different reason.

"The bottom! I felt the bottom, Bertrand! Tis not two fathom deep!"

"Nay!" gasped the valet, who had been near submerged himself. "How

[2Q2] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

can that be, in the middle of the ocean? Haply 'twas a whale or other
monster."

"'Twas hard sand bottom!" Ebenezer insisted. He went below again,
this time fearlessly, and from a depth of no more than eight feet brought
up a fistful of sand for proof.

"Belike a shoal, then," Bertrand said, unimpressed. "As well forty
fathom as two; we can't stand up in either. Farewell!"

"Wait! Tis no cloud yonder, man, but an ocean isle we've washed to!
Those are her cliffs that hide the stars; that sound is the surf against her
coast!"

"I cannot reach it."

"You can! 'Tis not two hundred yards to shore, and less to a standing
place!" Fearing for his own endurance, he waited no longer for his man
to be persuaded, but struck out westwards for the starless sky, and soon
heard Bertrand panting and splashing behind. With every stroke his con-
jecture seemed more likely; the sound of gentle surf grew distant and rec-
ognizable, and the dark outline defined itself more sharply.

"If not an isle, at least 'twill be a rock," he called over his shoulder,
"and we can wait for passing ships."

After a hundred yards they could swim no farther; happily, Ebenezer
found that by standing on tiptoe he could just clear the surface with his
chin.

'Very well for you, that are so tall," lamented Bertrand, "but I must
perish here in sight of land!"

Ebenezer, however, would hear of no such thing: he instructed the valet
to float along behind him, hands on the poet's shoulders for support. It
was tedious going, especially for Ebenezer, only the balk of whose feet
were on the bottom: the weight behind pulled him off balance at every
step, and though Bertrand rode clear, his weight held Ebenezer at a con-
stant depth, so that only between waves could he catch his breath. The
manner of their progress was thus: in each trough Ebenezer secured his
footing and drew a breath; when the wave came he stroked with both arms
from his breast and, with his head under, rode perhaps two feet— one of
which would be lost in the slight undertow before he regained his footing.
Half an hour, during which they covered no more than forty or fifty feet,
was enough to exhaust his strength, but by then the water was just shallow
enough for the valet to stand as well. It required another thirty minutes
to drag themselves over the remaining distance: had there been breakers
they might yet have drowned, but the waves w^re never more than two

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [293l

feet high, and oftener less than one. At last they reached a pebbly beach
and, too fatigued for words, crawled on all fours to the base of the nearby
cliff, where they lay some while as if a-swoon.

Presently, however, despite the mildness of the night and the protection
provided by the cliff against the westerly breeze, they found their resting-
place too cold for comfort and had to search for better shelter until their
clothes were dry. They made their way northward along the beach and
were fortunate enough to find not far away a place where the high sand-
stone was cut by a wooded ravine debouching onto the shore. Here tall
wheatlike weeds grew between the scrub pines and bayberries; the castaways
curled together like animals in a nest and knew no more till after dawn.

It was the sand fleas that roused them at last: scores of sand fleas hopped
and crawled all over them— attracted, luckily, not by hunger but by the
warmth of their bodies— and tickled them awake.

Ebenezer jumped up and looked unbelievingly about. "Dear God!" he
laughed. "I had forgot!"

Bertrand too stood up, and the sand fleas— not really parasites at all-
hopped madly in search of cover.

"And I," he said, hoarse from exposure. "I dreamt I was in London with
my Betsy. God pox those vermin for waking me!"

"But we're alive, at that. Tis more than anyone expected."

"Thanks to you, sir!" Bertrand fell to his knees before the poet. "'Tis
a Catholic saint that saves the man who ruined him!"

"Make me no saint today," Ebenezer said, "or you'll have me a Jesuit
tomorrow." But he was flattered nonetheless. "No doubt I had better
drowned when Father hears the news!"

Bertrand clasped his hands together. "Many's the wrong I've done ye,
sir, that I'll pay in Hell for, anon— nor shall I want company in the fire.
But I vow ye a vow this instant I'm your slave fore'er, to do with as ye
will, and should we e'er be rescued off this island I shall give my life to
gaining back your loss."

The Laureate, embarrassed by these protestations, replied, "I dare not
ask it, lest you pledge my soul!" and proposed an immediate search for food.
The day was bright, and warm for mid-September; they were chilled
through from exposure, and upon brushing the sand from themselves
found their joints stiff and every muscle sore from the past night's labors.
But their clothes were dry except for the side on which they'd slept, and a
little stamping of feet and swinging of arms was enough to start the warm
blood coursing. They were without hats, wigs, or shoes, but otherwise ade-

[294] TEDE SOT-WEED FACTOR

quately clothed in the sturdy garb of seamen. Food, however, they had to
find, though Ebenezer longed to explore the island at once: their stomachs
rumbled, and they had not much strength. To cook their meal was no
great problem: Bertrand had with him the little tinderbox he carried in
his pocket for smoking purposes, and though the tinder itself was damp,
the flint and steel were as good as new, and the beach afforded drift-
wood and dry seaweed. Finding something to cook was another matter.
The woods no doubt abounded with small game; gulls, kingfishers, rails,
and sandpipers soared and flitted along the beach; and there were certainly
fish to be caught in the shallows; but they had no implements to hunt with.

Bertrand despaired afresh. " 'Tis a passing cruel prank fate plays us, to
trade a quick death for a slow!" And despite his recent gratitude, the surli-
ness with which he rejected various proposals for improvising weapons be-
trayed a certain resentment toward Ebenezer for having saved him. Indeed,
he shortly abandoned as hopeless the search for meaiis and went to gather
firewood, declaring his intention to starve at least in relative comfort. Eben-
ezer, left to his own resources, resolved to walk some distance down the
beach, hoping to find inspiration along the way.

It was a long beach. In fact, the island appeared to be of considerable
size, for though the shoreline curved out of sight in both directions, its
reappearance farther south suggested a cove or bay, perhaps a succession
pf them; one could not locate the actual curve of the island's perimeter.
Of its body nothing could be seen except the line of stratified cliffs, caved
by the sea and weathered to various browns and oranges, and the edge
trees of the forest that ran back from the precipice— some with half their
roots exposed, some already fallen the sixty or a hundred feet to the beach
and polished like pewter by salt air and sand. If one scaled those cliffs,
what wonders might one see?

Ebenezer had been at sea nearly half a year in all, yet never had he seen
it so calm. There was no ground swell at alh only catspaws riffling here
and there, and laps of waves not two hands high. As he walked he no-
ticed minnows darting in the shallows and schools of white perch flipping
and rippling a few feet out. Crabs, as well, of a sort he had never seen,
slid sideways out to safety as he approached; in the water their shells were
olive against the yellow sand, but the carapaces he found along the beach
were cooked a reddish-orange by the sun.

'Would God I had a net!"

Arpund a bend just past the place where they had crawled ashore he
saw a startling sight— all along the foreshore, below the line of weed and

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 295 1

driftwood that marked high tide, were sheets of white paper; others rolled
and curled in the rim of the sea. The thought that there might be people
on the island made his face burn, not entirely with joy— in fact, it was a
curious relief he felt, small but undeniable, when the papers proved to be
the tale of Hicktopeake, Laughing King of Accomack; but he could not
as yet say plainly what it was that relieved him. He gathered all the pages
he could find, though the ink had run so that only an occasional word
was legible; they would, when dry, be good for lighting fires.

He started back with them, thinking idly of John Smith's adventures.
Did this curious pleasure stem from the fact that he, like Smith, was in
terra incognita, or was there more to it? He hoped they would find no
Indians, at least, like the fearsome fellows Smith had found spearing fish
along the shore. . . .

" 'Sheart!" he cried aloud, and kissed the wondrous Journal.

An hour later their dinner was on the fire: seven respectable perch, half
a foot long after cleaning, roasted on a green laurel turnspit, and on a thin
piece of shale such as could be picked up anywhere along the cliffs, four
crabs, frankly an experiment, fried in their natural juices. The hard-shelled
ones could not be speared, but in pursuit of them Bertrand had found
these others— similar in appearance but with shells soft as Spanish kid-
brooding in clumps of sea-grass near the shore. Nor did they want for water;
in a dozen places along the base of the cliff Ebenezer had found natural
springs issuing from what looked like layers of hard clay, whence they ran
seawards across the beach on the beds of softer clay one encountered every
few hundred feet. One had, indeed, to take care in approaching these springs,
for the clay beds were slippery and in places treacherously soft,, as Ebenezer
learned: without warning one could plunge knee-deep into what looked
rock-hard on the surface. But the water was clean and sweet from filtering
through the stone, and so cold it stung the teeth.

To get full benefit of the sun they did their cooking on the beach.
Bertrand, humbled anew by his master's inspiration, attended the meal;,
Ebenezer made use of a fallen tree nearby for a back rest and was content
to chew upon a reed and regard the sputtering crabs.

"Where do ye fancy we are?" inquired the valet, whose curiosity had
returned with his good spirits.

"God knows!" the poet said cheerfully. " 'Tis some Atlantic isle, that's
sure, and belike not giv'n on the charts, else I doubt me Pound would
choose the spot to plank us."

[ 296 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

This conjecture pleased the valet mightily. "I have heard tell of the
Fortunate Islands, sir; old Twigg at St. Giles was wont to speak of 'em
whene'er her gout was paining."

"Well I recall it!" Ebenezer laughed "Didn't I hear from the cradle
how she stood watch all the voyage from Maryland, hoping for a sight
of them?"

"Think ye this is the place?"

Tfaith, 'tis fair enough," the poet granted. "But the ocean swarms with
isles that man knows naught of. How maijy times dear Anna and I have
pled with Burlingame to tell of them— Grocland, Helluland, Stokafixa, and
the rest! How many fond hours I've pored over Zeno the Venetian, Peter
Martyr d'Anghiera, and good Hakluyt's books of voyages! E'en at Cam-
bridge, when I had better done other things, I spent whole evenings over
ancient maps and manuscripts. 'Twas there at Magdalene, in the antique
Book of Lismore, I saw described the Fortunate Islands dear old Mrs.
Twigg yearned for, and read how St. Brendan found them. 'Twas there
I learned of Markland, too, the wooded isle; and Frisland and Icaria.
Who knows which this might be? Haply 'tis Atlantis risen from the sea,
or the Sunken Land of Buss old Frobisher found; haply 'tis Bra, whose
women have much pain in bearing children, or magic Daculi, the cradle
island, where they go for gentler labor."

"It matters naught to me," said Bertrand, "so we be not killed by salvages.
Tis a thing I've feared for since we stepped ashore. Did ye read what
manner of husbands the wenches have?"

"I've shared your fear," Ebenezer admitted. "Some isles are bare of men;
others, like famed Cibola, boast wondrous cities. Some are like Estotiland,
whose folk are versed in every art and read from books in Latin; some
others are like her neighbor Drogio, where Zeno says the salvages eat
their captives."

"Pray Heav'n this is not Drogio!"

"We shall climb to the cliff top when we've eaten," Ebenezer said "If
I can see the island whole, I may be able to name it." He went on to
explain that, while the location and size of islands varied widely from map
to map, there was some agreement among cartographers as to their shape.
"If 'tis in the form of a great crescent, for example, 'twill of necessity be
Mayda; if a small one, 'tis doubtless Tanmare, that Peter Martyr spoke of.
A large parallelogram would be Antillia; a smaller one Salvagio. A simple
rectangle we shall know for Ilia Verde, and a pentagon for Reylla. If we
find this isle to be a perfect circle, we must look farther for its inland

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 297 ]

features: if 'tis cut in twain by a river we shall know it for Brazil, but if in-
stead 'tis a kind of ring or annulus about an inland lake, the which hath
sundry islets of its own, then Heav'n hath smiled on us as ne'er on Coro-
nado, for 'twill be Cibola, the Isle of the Seven Golden Cities!"

" 'Sheart, may we find it so!" said Bertrand, turning the fish to brown.
"Twere not like folk in a golden city to eat up strangers, d'ye think?"

"Nay, 'tis more likely they'll take us for gods and grant our every
pleasure," Ebenezer declared. "Such was the luck of stout Cortez among
the Aztecs, that had a town of gold: e'en the Emperor Montezuma bowed
to him"

"Marry, I hope and pray 'tis the Isle of Seven Cities, then; I shall have
three and you the rest, to make up for losing Maiden! Doth the book say
aught of the women in these towns, whether they be fat or thin, or fair
of face?"

"Naught that I can recall," the poet replied.

"I'God, let us make short work of these fish, sir!" Bertrand urged, sliding
them from the laurel spit to the clean-washed slates they had found to eat
from. "I cannot wait to see my golden towns!"

"Be not o'erhasty, now; this may not be Cibola after all. For aught we
know it may lie in the shape of a human hand, in which case our goose
is cooked: Hand-of-Satan hath such a shape, and 'tis one of the InsuLae
Demonium—the demons' isles."

This final possibility chastened them sufficiently to do full justice to the
perch and soft crabs, which they seasoned with hunger, ate with their fingers,
and washed down with clamshellfuls of cold spring water. Then they
stuffed an extra soft crab each into their pockets, grease and all, and climbed
through the ravine to the top of the cliff, whence to their chagrin
they could see no more than open water on one side of them and trees
on the other. The sun was still but forty-five degrees above the eastern
horizon; there was time for some hours of exploration before they need
think of dinner and a shelter for the night.

"What course do ye propose, sir?" Bertrand asked.

"I have a plan," said Ebenezer. "But ere I tell it, what course do you
propose?"

" Tis not for me to say, sir. I'll own I have spoken out of turn befot^
but that's behind me. Ye have saved my life and forgiven the harm I've
done ye; I'll dance to any tune ye call."

Ebenezer acknowledged the propriety of these sentiments, but took issue
with them nevertheless. "We are cast here on some God-forsaken isle," he

[ 298 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

said, "remote from the world of bob-wig and dildo. What sense here hath
the title Poet Laureate, or the labels man and master? Thou'rt one man,
I another, and there's an end on't."

Bertrand considered this for a moment. "I confess I have my preferences,"
he said. "If 'twere mine to decide, I'd strike out inland with all haste. Haply
we'll find one or two golden cities ere dinnertime."

"We've no certain knowledge this is the Isle of Seven Cities/' Ebenezer
reminded him, "nor do I relish walking overland without shoes. What I
propose is that we walk along the shore to learn the length and shape of
the island. Haply 'twill identify our find, or show us what manner of people
live here, if any. Nay, more, we've paper aplenty here, and charcoal sticks
to mark with: we can count our paces to every turn and draw a map as we

go"

"That's so," the valet admitted. "But 'twould mean another meal of fish
and soft crabs and another night upon the ground. If we make haste in-
land, haply 'tis golden plates we'll eat from, and sleep in a golden bed,
by Heav'n!" His voice grew feverish. "Just fancy us a pair of bloody gods,
sir! Wouldn't we get us godlets on their maiden girls and pass the plate
come Sunday? Tis a better post than Baltimore's paltry sainthood,
b'm'faith! I'd not trade places with the Pope!"

"All that may happen yet," Ebenezer said. "On the other hand we
might encounter monsters, or salvage Indians that will eat us for dinner.
Methinks 'twere wise to scout around somewhat, to get the lay of the land:
what do a few days matter to an immortal god?"

The prudence of this plan was undeniable; reluctant as he was to post-
pone for even a day the joys of being a deity, Bertrand had no mind to
be a meal for either cannibals or dragons— both of whose existence he might
have been skeptical of in London, but not here—and so agreed to it readily,
if not enthusiastically. They made their way down to the beach again,
marked their point of departure with a stake to which was tied a strip of
rag from Bertrand's shirt, and struck out northward along the shore, Eben-
ezer counting paces as they walked.

He had not reached two hundred when Bertrand caugjit his arm.

"Hark!" he whispered. "Listen yonder!"

They stood still. From behind a fallen tree not far ahead, a hackle-
raising sound came down on the breeze: it was half a moan, half a tuneless
chant, lugubrious and wild,

"Let us flee!" Bertrand whispered. "'Tis one of those monsters^"

"Nay," Ebenezer said, his skin a-prickle. "That is no beast."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 299 ]

"A hungry salvage, then; come on!"

The cry floated down to them again.

"Methinks 'tis the sound of pain, not of hunger, Bertrand. Some wight
lies hurt by yonder log/'

"God save him, then!" the valet cried. "If we go near, his friends will
leap us from behind and make a meal of us."

"You'll give up your post so lightly?" Ebenezer teased, "What sort of
god are you, that will not aid his votaries?"

A third time came the pitiable sound, and though the valet stood too
terrified to move, Ebenezer approached the fallen tree and peered over
it. A naked black man lay there on the sand, face down, his wrists and ankles
bound; his back was striped with the healed scars of many floggings, and
from myriad cuts and scratches on his legs he bled upon the sand. He was
a tall, well-muscled man in the prime of life, but obviously exhausted; his
skin was wet, and a spotty trail of blood ran from where he lay to the
water's edge. Even as Ebenezer watched him from above, unobserved, he
lifted his head with a mighty effort and resumed the woeful incantation,
chanting in a savage-sounding tongue.

"Come hither!" the poet called to Bertrand, and scrambled over the log.
The Negro wrenched over on his side and shrank against the tree trunk,
regarding the newcomer wildly. He was a prepossessing fellow with high
cheekbones and forehead, massive browbones over his great white eyes, a
nose splayed flat against his face, and a scalp shaved nearly bald and
scarified— like his cheeks, forehead, and upper arms— in strange designs.

"God in Heaven!" Bertrand cried on seeing him. The black man's eyes
rolled in his direction. " 'Tis a regular salvage!"

"His hands are bound behind him, and he's hurt from crawling over the
stones."

"Run, then! He'll ne'er catch up with us!"

"On the contrary," said the Laureate, and turning to the black man he
said loudly and distinctly, "Let-me*untie~the-ropes."

His answer was a string of exotic gibberish; the black man clearly ex-
pected them to kill him momently.

"Nay, nay," Ebenezer protested.

"Prithee do not do't, sir!" said Bertrand. "The wretch will leap on ye
the minute he's free! Think ye these salvages know aught of gratitude?"

Ebenezer shrugged. "They could know no less oft than some others.
Hath he not been thrown, like us, into the sea to die and made his way
by main strength to this shore? I-am4he-Poet-Laureate-of-Maryland" he

[ 300 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

declared to the black man; "I-will-not-harm-you" To illustrate he bran-
dished a stick as though to strike with it, but snapped it over his knee
instead and flung it away, shaking his head and smiling. He pointed to
Bertrand and himself, flung his arm cordially about the valet's shoulders
and said "This-man^nd-I-are-friends. You"— he pointed to all three in turn
— "shall-be-our-friend'OS'-well"

The man seemed still to be fearful, but his eyes showed more suspicion
now than dread. When Ebenezer forcibly moved behind him to release
his hands and Bertrand, at his master's insistence, reluctantly went to work
on the ropes that bound his feet, the fellow whimpered.

Ebenezer patted his shoulder. "Have no fear, friend/'

It took some labor to undo the ropes, for the knots were swollen from
the water and pulled tight by the captive's exertions.

"Whose prisoner do ye take him for?" asked Bertrand. "My guess is, he's
one of those human sacrifices ye told me of, that the folk in golden cities
use in lieu of money on the Sabbath."

"That may well be," the poet agreed. "His captors must in sooth be
clever men, and no mere salvages, else they ne'er could make such fine
stout rope or tie such wondrous hitches in't. Haply they were ferrying him
to the slaughter when he escaped; or belike 'twas some sea-god he was
meant for. Confound these knots!"

"In any case," said Bertrand, "'twill scarcely please 'em to learn we set
him loose. 'Tis like stealing from the collection plate in church."

"They need not know oft. Besides, we are their rightful gods, are we
not? What we do with our offerings is our own affair."

This last, to be sure, he spoke in jest. They loosened the final knots and
retreated a few paces for safety's sake, not certain what the man would
do.

"We'll run in different directions," Ebenezer said. "When he takes out
after one, the other will pursue him from behind."

The black shook off the loosened bonds, still looking warily about, and
rose with difficulty to his feet. Then, as if realizing that he was free, he
stretched his limbs, grinned mightily, raised his arms to the sun, and de-
livered a brief harangue in its direction, interspersing his address with
gestures in their direction.

"Look at the size of him!" Bertrand marveled. "Not e'en Boabdil was
so made!"

Ebenezer frowned at mention of the Moor. "Methinks he's speaking to
the sun now; belike 'tis a prayer of thanks."

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ JO1 ]

"He is a very percheron stud!"

Then, to their considerable discomfort, the fellow ended his speech and
turned to face them; even took a step towards them.

"Run!" cried Bertrand.

But no violence was offered them; instead, the black prostrated him-
self at their feet and with muttered reverences embraced their ankles each
in turn; nor would he rise when done, but knelt with forehead on the
sand.

"'Sbody, sir! What doth this signify?"

"I would not say for certain," Ebenezer , replied, "but it seems to me
you have what erst you wished: This wight hath bid his farewells to the
sun and taken us for his gods,"

And so indeed it seemed; the man moved not a muscle, but remained
in his attitude of worship, clearly awaiting his benefactors' pleasure.

"Ffaith," the valet said uncomfortably. "We did not ask for this! What
in Heav'n would he have us do?"

"Who knows?" the poet answered. "I never was a god till now. We gave
him his life, and so he's ours to bless or bastinado, I suppose." He sighed.
"In any case let's bid him rise ere he takes a backache: no god keeps men
upon their knees forever."

17: THE LAUREATE MEETS THE ANACOSTIN KING
AND LEARNS THE TRUE NAME OF HIS OCEAN ISLE

'ONE THING IS CERTAIN," EBENEZER SAID, WHEN THEY RESUMED THEIR

exploration of the beach: "we must demand obedience of this fellow, if
we're to be his deities. That is the clearest common attribute of gods, for
one thing, and the safest policy besides: he may slay the twain of us if he
learns we're mortal."

They had raised the black man up and bade him wash his wounds, which
happily were no worse than scratches from the shells, and had moreover
presented him with the extra soft crabs— cold and linty from their pockets,
but edible nonetheless— and stood by while he made short work of them.
Their charity provoked a fresh display of prostrate gratitude, which acknowl-
edged, they had squatted with him some while on the sand and tried by

[ £02 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

words, gestures, and pictures drawn with sticks to hold converse. What was
the name of the island? Ebenezer had asked him. What was his name?
Where was his town? Who had bound his limbs and flung him into the
sea, and for what cause? And Bertrand, not to be outdone, had added
queries of his own: How distant from where they sat was the first of the
golden cities? What sort of false gods had its citizens, and were the ladies
dark or fair?

But though the black man had heard their inquiries with worshipful
attention, his eyes had shown more love than understanding; all they could
get from him was his name, which— though it was doubtless from no civi-
lized tongue at all— sounded variously to Ebenezer like Drehpunkter,
Dreipunkter, Dreckpdchter, Drogueptcheur, Droitpacteur, Drupegre,
Drfcheporteur, or even Despartidor, and to Bertrand invariably like
Drdkepecker. For that matter it may have been not his name at all but
some savage call to worship, since every time they said the word he made
a genuflection.

"What shall we do with him?" Bertrand asked. "He shows no mind to
go about his business."

"So be't," Ebenezer replied. "Let him help with ours, then. Tis readi-
ness to take orders that makes the subject, and readiness to give them that
makes the lord. Besides, if we set him labors enough he can plot us no
mischief."

They resolved^ therefore, to let the big black man accompany them as
food- and wood-gatherer, cook, and general factotum; indeed, they were
given little choice, for he clearly had no intention of leaving and could if
angered have destroyed them both in half a minute. The three set out
northward once again, Ebenezer and Bertrand in the lead and Drake-
pecker a respectful pace or two behind. For an hour or more they trudged
over pebbles, soft sand, and beds of red, blue, and egg-white clay, always
with the steep unbroken cliff-face on their left and the strangely placid
ocean on their right; every turn Bertrand expected to discover a golden
city, but it would reveal instead only a small cove or other indentation
of the shoreline, which in the main ran still directly north. Then, leg weary
and footsore, they stopped to rest beneath the mouth of a natural cave
some ten or twelve feet up on the cliff wall. The savage, to whom Ebenezer
had entrusted the rude spear with which he'd caught their breakfast, in-
dicated by brandishing it and rubbing his stomach a desire to forage for
dinner; upon receiving permission he scrambled like a monkey up the rock-
face and disappeared.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 303 ]

Bertrand watched him go and sighed. " Tis the last we'll see of Drake-
pecker; and good riddance, says I."

"What!" Ebenezer smiled. "Thou'rt so soon tired of being God?"

The valet admitted that he was. "I had rather do the work myself than
lord it o'er so fearsome a wight as he. This very minute he might be plotting
to spit the twain of us on his spear and fry us up for's dinner!"

"I think not," said the poet. "He likes to serve us."

"Ah, sir, no man enjoys his bondage! Think you there' d be a servant
in the world, if each man had his choice? Tis ill luck, force, and penury
that make some men serve others; all three are galling masters."

"What then of habit, and natural predilection?" teased Ebenezer. "Some
men are born to serve."

Bertrand considered these for a moment and then said, "Habit's no first
cause, but a child of bleak necessity, is't not? Our legs grew calloused to
the pirates' shackles, but we wished them off us nonetheless. As for this
natural bent to slavery, 'tis a tale hatched by the masters: no slave believes
it."

"A moment past you spoke of doing the chores thyself," Ebenezer said,
"but never a word of me doing them; yet 'twas I proposed we forget our
former stations, since the wilderness knows naught of classes."

Bertrand laughed. "Then to my list of yokes add obligation; he's no more
mild a master."

"Call him gratitude or love instead," said Ebenezer, "and watch how
men rejoice in their indenture! This Drakepecker, as you call him, chose his
present bondage when we set him free of a worse, and he may end it by
his own leave when he lists. Therefore I fear him not, and look to have
him serve us many a day." He then asked the valet how he proposed to
lord it over an entire city alone, if one subject shared between them scared
him so.

"'Tis god I want to be, not king," the valet said. "Let others give
and take commands, or lead and put down mutinies; I'll stock me a temple
with food and drink and sleep all morning in my golden bed! Ten young
priestesses I'll have for company, that shall hear confessions and say the
prayers in church, and a brace of great eunuchs to take collection and
guard the money."

"Sloth and viciousness!"

"Would ye not do the same, or any wight else? Who wants the chore
of ruling? 'Tis the crown men lust for, not the scepter."

"Who weto the one must wield the other," Ebenezer answered* "The

[ 304 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

man men bow to is lead sheep in a running flock, that must set their pace
or perish."

"Ye'll rule, then, in your city?" Bertrand wanted to know.

"Aye," said Ebenezer. They were sitting side by side, their backs against
the cliff, gazing idly out to sea. "And what a government would I establish!
Twould be an anti-Platonist republic/'

"I .should hope, sir! What need have you of the Pope, when thou'rt the
god?"

"Nay, Bertrand. This Plato spoke of a nation ruled by philosophers, to
which no poets might be admitted save those that sing the praises of the
government. There is an antique quarrel 'twixt poet and sage."

"Marry, as for that," Bertrand said, "'tis little different from England
or any place else; no prudent king would let a poet attack him. Why did
Lord Baltimore employ ye, if not to sing the praises of his government,
or John Coode work your ruin, if not to squelch the poem? Why, this
wondrous place ye speak of could as well be Maryland!"

"You miss my point," Ebenezer said uncomfortably. "To forbid a sub-
ject for verse is one thing; to prescribe, another. In my town philosophers
will all be welcome— so long as they do not start insurrections— but a poet
shall be their god, and a poet their king, and poets all their councillors:
'twill be a poetacracyl Methinks 'twas this Sir William Davenant had in's
mind, what time he sailed in vain to govern Maryland. The poet-king,
Bertrand-'tis a thought to conjure with! Nor fc't folly, I swear: who better
reads the hearts of men, philosopher or poet? Which is in closer harmony
with the world?" .

He had more to say to Bertrand on the subject, which had been stewing
all the morning in his fancy, but at this instant a pair of savages fell,
as it were, out of the blue and stood before them, spears in hand. They
were half-grown boys, no more than ten or twelve years old, dressed in
matchcoats and deerskin trousers; their skin was not brown-black like Drake-
pecker g but copper-brown, the color of the cliffs, and their hair, so far from
being short and woolly, fell straight and black below their shoulders They
put on the fiercest look they could manage and aimed their spears at the
white men. Bertrand shrieked. -

" 'Sheartr cried Ebenezer, and raised his arms to protect his face. "Drake-
pecker! Where is Drakepecker!"

- hath undone usr Bertrand wailed- <<llie mGicl* hath

us

But it was unthinkable that the boys had leaped from the cliff-top, and

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 305 ]

unlikely that they had climbed down without making a sound or dislodging
a pebble. It seemed probable to Ebenezer that they had been hiding in
the cave, above their heads, waiting their chance to jump. One of them
addressed the prisoners sharply in an unknown tongue, signaling them to
rise, and pointed to the mouth of the cave.

"Must we climb up?" asked Ebenezer, and for answer felt a spear point
prick his ham.

"Tell them we're gods!" Bertrand urged. "They mean to eat us alive!"

The command was repeated; they scrambled up the rocks to the lip of
the cave. The boys chattered as though to someone inside, and from the
shadow an older, calmer voice answered. The prisoners were forced to enter
—bent over, since the roof was never more than five feet high. The inside
stank of excrement and other unnameable odors. After a few moments,
when their eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they saw a full-grown
savage lying naked on a blanket on the floor, which was littered with shells,
bones, and crockery pots. At least part of the stench came from his
right knee, wrapped in ragged bandages. He raised himself on his elbows,
wincing, and scrutinized the prisoners. Then, to their unspeakable sur-
prise, he said "English?"

"FGod!" Ebenezer gasped. "Who are you, sir, that you speak our
tongue?"

The savage considered again their matted hair, torn clothing, and bare
feet. "You seek Quassapelagh? Did Warren send you for Quassapelagh?"
The boys moved closer with their spears.

"We seek no one," the poet said, clearly and loudly. "We are Englishmen,
thrown into the sea by pirates to drown; we reached this isle last night,
by great good fortune, but we know not where we are."

One of the boys spoke excitedly and brandished his spear, eager to have
at them, but the older man silenced him with a word.

"Prithee spare us," Ebenezer pleaded. "We do not know this Warren
that you speak ofr or any soul else hereabouts."

Again the youths made as if to run them through. The injured savage
rebuked them more sharply than before and apparently ordered them to
stand guard outside, for they evacuated the clammy cave with some show
of reluctance.

"They are good boys," the savage said. "They hate the English as much
as I, and wish to kill you."

"Then there are English on this island? What is the name oft?" Bertrand
was still too frightened to speak, but Ebenezer, despite his recent daydreams

[ 306 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

of a poet's island, could not contain his joy at the prospect of rejoining
his countrymen.

The savage regarded him narrowly. "You do not know where you are?"

"Only that 'tis an ocean isle/7 the Laureate replied.

"And you know not the name of Quassapelagh, the Anacostin King?"

"Nay."

For some moments their captor continued to search their faces. Then,
as though persuaded of their innocence, he lay back on the pallet and
stared at the roof of the cave.

"I am Quassapelagh," he declared. "The Anacostin King."

"KingF Bertrand exclaimed in a whisper to Ebenezer. "D'ye think
he's king of one of our golden towns?"

"This is the land of the Piscataways," Quassapelagh went on. "These
are the fields and forests of the Piscataways. That water is the water of
the Piscataways; these cliffs are our cliffs. They have belonged to the Pis-
cataways since the beginning of the world. My father was a king in this
land, and his father, and his father; and so for a time was I. But Quassapel-
agh is king no more, nor will my sons and grandsons rule."

"Ask him which way to the nearest golden town," Bertrand whispered,
but his master gestured him to silence.

<r\Vhy do you lie here in this miserable den?" Ebenezer asked " 'Tis
no fit dwelling for a king, methinks."

"This country is Quassapelagh's no more," the King replied. "Your
people have stolen it away. They came in ships, with sword and cannon,
and took the fields and forests from my father. They have herded us like
animals and driven us off. And when I said, 'This land belongs to the
Piscataways,' they turned me into prison. Our emperor, Ochotomaquath,
must hide like an animal in the hills, and in his place sits a young whelp
Passop, that licketh the English emperor's boots. My people must do his
bidding or starve."

"Injustice!" Ebenezer cried. "Did you hear, Bertrand? Who is this War-
ren that so presumes, and makes me feel shame to be an Englishman?
Some rogue of a pirate, I'll wager, that hath claimed the island for his own.
1'faith!" He clutched at the valet's sleeve. "I recall old Carl, the sailmaker,
spoke of a pirate town called Libertatia, on the Isle of Madagascar; pray
God 'tis not the same!"

"I know not the Emperor's name," Quassapelagh said, "for he hath but
ktely come to oppress my nation. This Warren is but a jailer and chief
of soldiers "

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 307 ]

At this moment a great commotion began outside the cave.

"Drakepecker!" Bertrand cried.

There at the cave's mouth the great black stood indeed: at his feet,
dropped in anger, lay the rude spear improvised by Ebenezer, on which
two bloody rabbits were impaled, and in each great hand he held a young
sentry by the neck. One he had already by some means disarmed, and
before the other could use his weapon to advantage, the fearsome Negro
cracked their heads together and flung them to the beach below.

"Bravo!" Ebenezer cheered.

"In here, Drakepecker!" Bertrand called, and leaped to pinion Quassa-
pelagh. "Come hither and crack this rascal's head as well!"

The Negro snatched up his spear and charged into the cave with a roar,
plainly intending to add Quassapelagh to his other trophies.

"Stay! Drakepecker!" Ebenezer commanded.

"Stick him!" shouted Bertrand, holding Quassapelagh's arms from be-
hind. The savage offered no resistance, but regarded the intruder with stern
contempt.

"I forbid it!" said Ebenezer, and grasped the spear.

Bertrand protested: " 'Tis what the wretch designed for us, sir!"

"If so, he showed no sign oft. Release him." When his arms were free
Quassapelagh lay back on the blanket and stared impassively at the ceiling.
"Those young boys were his sons," Ebenezer said. "Go with Drakepecker
and fetch them here, if he hath not killed them." The two men went,
Bertrand ^th considerable misgivings which he did not hesitate to give
voice to, and Ebenezer said to Quassapelagh, "Forgive my man for in-
juring your sons; he thought we were in peril. We mean you no harm at
all, sir. You have suffered enough at English hands."

But the savage remained impassive. "Shall I rejoice to find an English-
man with mercy?" He pointed to his evil-smelling knee. "Which is more
merciful, a spear in the heart or this poisoned knee, that I cut while flee-
ing like a rabbit in the night? If my sons are dead, I starve; if they live
I die of this poison. Your heart is good: I ask you to kill Quassapelagh."

Presently Bertrand and the Negro returned, marching at the points of
their spears the two young boys, who seemed to be suffering only from
bruises and sore heads.

"It is enough that my sons live," Quassapelagh said. "Tell your man to
kill me now."

"Nay, I've better work for him," Ebenezer said, and to Bertrand he
declared, "Drakepecker will remain here with the king and mind his wants

[ 208 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

while we sound the temper of these English bandits. The boys can lead us
to the outskirts of their settlement."

"Tis not mine to argue/' Bertiand sighed. "I only hope they've not
snatched all the golden towns and set themselves up as gods/'

Ebenezer then made clear to the Negro, by means of signs, that he
wished him to feed the King and dress the infected knee; to the latter item,
presented more as a query than a command, the black man responded
with bright affirmative nods and an enthusiastic chatter that suggested
acquaintance with some prophylactic or therapeutic measures. Without
more ado he removed the dirty dressing and examined the malodorous in-
flammation with a clearly chirurgical interest. Then, in his own tongue,
accompanying his orders with enough gesticulation for clarity, he directed
one of the boys to clean and cook the rabbits and sent the other to fetch
two crockery pots of water.

" 'Sheart!" Bertiand said respectfully. "The wighf s a physician as well!
Tis an honor to be his god, is't not, sir?"

The poet smiled. "Haply he merits a better, Bertrand; he is in sooth a
masterly creation."

Before two hours had elapsed, the rabbits were cooked and eaten—along
with raw oysters provided by the youths and a kind of parched and pow-
dered corn called rockahominy, of which the King had a large jarful— and
Quassapelagh's wound had been lanced with his own knife, drained of pus,
washed clean, and dressed with some decoction brewed by the Negro out
of various roots and herbs which he had gathered up in the woods while
the rabbits were roasting. Even the savages were impressed by the perform-
ance: the boys fingered their lumps with more of awe than of resentment,
and Quassapelagh's hard eyes shone.

"If the English are not far distant, I should like to have a look at them
ere dark," the Laureate announced. When Quassapelagh replied that they
were not above three miles away, he repeated his orders to the Negro,
who, kneeling as usual at the sound of his name, acquiesced tearfully to
the separation.

"If we find them to be pirates or highwaymen, we'll return a once/'
Ebenezer told the King.

^ "The Emperor of the English will not harm you," Quassapelagh said,
"nor need you fear for my sons, who are unknown to him. But speak not
the name of the Anacostin King to any man unless you wish me dead, and
do not return to this cave. Your kindness to Quassapelagh will not be for-

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 309 ]

gotten." He spoke in the native tongue to one of the boys, who fetched
him a small leather packet from the rear of the cave.

" Tis a map of the Seven Cities he means to show us!" Bertrand whis-
pered.

"Take these/' said the King, and gave to each of the men a small amulet,
carved, it appeared, from the vertebra of a relatively large fish— a hollow,
watery-white cylinder of bone perhaps three quarters of an inch in width
and half that in diameter, with small projections where the dorsal and
ventral ribs had been cut off and the near-translucence characteristic of the
bones of fish. Bertrand's face fell. "It seems a small repayment for my
life," Quassapelagh said sternly, "but it was for one of these that Warren
turned me free."

"This Warren is a fool," grumbled Bertrand.

The King ignored him. "Wear it as a ring upon your finger," he told
Ebenezer. "One day when beath is very close, this ring may turn him
away."

Ebenezer too was somewhat disappointed by the present, the rude carv-
ings of which could not even be called decorative, but he accepted it politely
and, since the outside diameter was too large for comfort, strung it upon
a thin rawhide thong and wore it around his neck, under his shirt. Bertrand,
on the other hand, stuffed his ungraciously into a pocket of his trousers.
Then,, it being already late in the afternoon and the beach in shadow
from the cliffs, they bade warm good-byes to the big Negro and Quassape-
lagh and, with the savage boys as guides ascended to the forest and struck
out more or less northwestward, moving slowly because of their bare feet.

"Thou'rt not o'erjoyed at traveling to our countrymen," Ebenezer ob-
served to Bertrand.

"I'm not o'erjoyed at walking into a pirates' nest, when we could as
lightly search for golden towns," the valet admitted. "Nor did we drive
a happy bargain with that salvage king, to trade Drakepecker for a pair
of fishbones."

" 'Twas not a trade, nor yet a gift/' the poet said. "If he was obliged
to us for his life, then saving ours discharged his obligation."

But Bertrand was not so easily mollified.

" 'Sbody, sir, I mean nor selfishness nor blasphemy, but 'tis precious rare
a valet 'gets to be a god! Yet I'd scarce commenced to take the measure
of the office, as't were, and get the hang oft, ere ye trade off my parishioner
for a pitiful pair of fishbones! I wanted but another day or two to god it
about, don't ye know, ere we turned old Drakepecker loose."

[ J1O ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Not I," the Laureate said. "'Tis a post I feel well quit of. We found
him cast up helpless from the sea and left him helpful in a cave; he hath
been slave to a god and now is servant to a king. Whither he goes thence
is his own affair. We twain did well to start him on his journey— is that
not godding it enough? Besides which/' he concluded, "you had not the
chore of keeping him occupied, as I did, or you'd not complain; I was
pleased to find that work to set him to. If we reach our golden cities, my
own shall be republican, not theocratic, nor have I any wish to be its ruler.
That much Drakepecker hath taught me."

Bertrand smiled. "Ye've been not long a master, thus to speak, sir! D'ye
think I mean to fill my head with dogmas and decretals, once I'm in my
temple? That is the work of the lesser fry — priests and clerks and all that
ilk. A god doth naught but sit and sniff the incense, count his money,
and take his pick o' the wenches."

"Methinks your reign in Heaven shan't be long," Ebenezer observed.

"Nor doth it need be," said his valet.

After a while the woods thinned out, and to westward, through the trees,
they saw a cleared field of considerable size in which grew orderly green
rows of an unfamiliar broad-leaved plant. Ebenezer's heart leaped at the
sight

"Look yonder, Bertrand! That is no salvage crop!" He laid hold of one
of their guides and pointed to the field. "What do you call that?" he
demanded loudly, as if to achieve communication by volume. "What is
the name of that? Did the English plant that field?"

The boy caught up the word happily and nodded. "English. English."
Then he launched into some further observation, in the course of which
Ebenezer heard the word tobacco.

"Tobacco?" he inquired. "That is tobacco?"

"How can that be?" Bertrand wondered,

"Tis not so strange, after all," said tte Laureate. "Captain Pound was
wont to sail the latitude of the Azores, that ran to the Virginia Capes,
and any isle along that parallel would have Virginia's climate, would it
not?"

Bertrand then demanded to know why a band of pirates would waste
their time on agriculture.

"We have no proof they're pirates," Ebenezer reminded him. They could
as well be sot-weed smugglers, of which Henry Burlingame declares there
are a great number, or simply honest planters. Tis a thing to hope for
is'tnot?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 31 1 ]

A contrary sentiment showed in Bertrand's face, but before he had a
chance to voice it the two boys motioned them to silence. The four moved
stealthily through a final grove of trees to where the forest ended at a
riverbank on the north and a roadway paved with bare logs on the west.
Sounds of activity came to them from a large log structure like a store-
house, obviously the work of white men, that ran from the roadside back
into the trees; at their guide's direction they crept up to the rear wall,, from
which point of vantage, their hearts in their mouths, they could safely peer
down the road toward the river.

"I'God!" Ebenezer whispered. The noise they had heard, a rumbling
and chanting, was made by several teams of three Negroes each, who, bare-
footed and naked to the waist, were rolling enormous wooden hogsheads
over the road down to a landing at the river's edge and singing as they
worked. On a pier that ran out from the shore was a group of bareheaded,
shoeless men dressed in bleached and tattered Scotch cloth, who despite
their sunburnt faces and generally uncouth appearance was plainly of
European and not barbaric' origin; they were engaged in nothing more
strenuous than leaning against the pilings, smoking pipes, passing round
a crockery jug (after each drink from which they wiped their mouths on
the tops of their hairy forearms), and watching the Negroes wrestle their
burdens into a pair of lighters moored alongside. At sight of them Ebenezer
rejoiced, but more marvelous still—so marvelous that the beholding of it
brought tears to his eyes— out in mid-channel of the broad river, which
must have been nearly two miles wide at that point, a stately, high-pooped,
three-masted vessel rode at anchor, loading cargo from the lighters, and
from her maintop hung folds of red, white, and blue that could be no
other banner but the King's colors.

"These are no brigands, but honest English planters!" Ebenezer laughed.
" Tis some island of the Indies we have hit on!" And for all the others
warned him to be silent, he cried out for joy, burst out onto the roadway,
and ran whooping and hallooing to the wharf. The young savages fled into
the forest; Bertrand, filled with gloom and consternation, lingered by the
warehouse wall to watch.

"Countrymen! Countrymen!" Ebenezer called. The Negroes stopped
their song and left their labors to see him go by, and the white men too
turned round in surprise at the outcry. It was indeed a most uncommon
spectacle: even thinner than usual from the rigors of his months on ship-
board, Ebenezer bounded down the log road like a shaggy stork. His feet
were bare and blistered, his shirt and breeches shred to rags; bald and beard-

[ 312 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOIt

less at the time of his abduction from the Poseidon, he had let his hair
grow wild from scalp and chin alike, so that now, though still of no great
length, it was entirely matted and ungroomed. Add to this, he was more
sunburnt than the planters and at least as dirty, the very picture of a casta-
way, and his haste was made the more grotesque by the way he clutched
both arms across his shirt front, wherein he carried still the curling pages
of the Journal.

"Countrymen!" he cried again upon reaching the landing. "Say some-
thing quickly,, that I may hear what tongue you speak!"

The men exchanged glances; some shifted their positions, and others
sucked uneasily on their pipes.

"He is a madman/' one suggested, and before he could retreat found
himself embraced.

"Thou'rt English! Dear God, thou'rt English!"

"Back off, there!"

Ebenezer pointed jubilantly seawards. "Where is that vessel bound, sir,
as thou'rt a Christian Englishman?*'

"For Portsmouth, with the fleet "

"Praise Heav'n!" He leaped and clapped his hands and called back to
the warehouse, "Bertrand! Bertrandl They're honest English gentlemen all!
Hither, Bertrand! And prithee, wondrous Englishman," he said, and laid
hold of another planter who, owing to the water at his back, could not
escape, "what isle is this I have been washed to? Is't Barbados, or the far
Antilles?"

"Thy brains are pickled with rum/' growled the planter, shaking free.

'The Bermoothes, then!" Ebenezer cried. He fell to his knees and
clutched the fellow's trouser legs. "Tell me 'tis Corvo, or some isle I have
not heard of!"

«/"TiS n0t ^ °ne P°r fte other> nor an? isle else>" ^ Pinter said.
"'Tis but poor shitten Maryland, damn your eyes,"

18: THE LAUREATE PAYS HIS FARE TO CROSS A RIVER

"MARYLAND!" EBENEZER RELEASED ms VICTIM'S TROUSERS AND LOOKED
back toward the woods he'd emerged from, at the fields of green tobacco
and the Negroes grinning broadly beside their hogsheads. His face lit up.

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 313 ]

Still kneeling, as though transfixed, he laid his right hand over his heart
and raised his left to the gently rolling hills, behind which the sun was
just descending. "Smile, ye gracious hills and sunlit trees!" he commanded.
"Thine own sweet singer, thy Laureate, is come to noise thy glory!"

This was a disembarkation-piece he had composed aboard the Poseidon
some months before, deeming it fit that as Laureate of Maryland he
should salute his bailiwick poetically upon first setting foot on it, and in-
tending also to leave no question among his new compatriots that he was
poet to the bone. He was therefore not a little piqued to see his initial
public declamation received with great hilarity by his audience, who guf-
fawed and snorted, smacked their thighs and held their sides, wet their
noses and elbowed their neighbors, and pointed horny fingers at Ebenezer,
and broke wind in their uncouth breeches.

The Laureate let go his pose, rose to his feet, arched his great blond
eyebrows, pursed his lips, and said, "I'll cast you no more pearls,, my friends.
Have a care, or I'll see thy masters birch you one and all." He turned
his back on them and hurried to the foot of the landing, where Bertrand
stood uncomfortably under the scrutiny of several delighted Negroes.

"Put by your dream of seven cities, Bertrand: you stand upon the blessed
soil of Maryland!"

"I heard as much," the valet said sourly.

"Is't not a paradise? Look yonder, how the sunset fires those trees!"

"Yet your fellow Marylanders would win no place at Court, I think."

"Nay, who shall blame them for their disrespect?" Ebenezer looked down
at his own garb and Bertrand's, and laughed. "What man could see a
Laureate Poet here? Besides, they're only simple servants."

" Tis an idle master lets 'ern drink their afternoons, then," Bertrand
said skeptically. "I cannot blame Quassapelagh "

"La!" the poet warned. "Speak not his name!"

"I merely meant, I see his point of view."

"Only think!" Ebenezer marveled. "He was king of the salvage Indians

of Maryland! And Drakepecker " He looked with awe on the muscular

Negroes and frowned.

Bertrand followed the thought, and his eyes welled up with tears. "How
could that princely fellow be a slave? Plague take your Maryland!"

"We must not judge o'erhastily," Ebenezer said, but he stroked his beard
reflectively.

All through this colloquy the idle Englishmen had wheezed and snick-
ered in the background. One of their number— a wiry, wrinkled old repro-

[ 314 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

bate with clipped ears and a branded palm— now scraped and bowed his
way up to them and said with exaggerated accent, "Your Grace must
pardon our rudeness. We're at your service, m'lord."

"Be't so," Ebenezer said at once, and giving Bertiand a knowing look
he stepped out on the pier to address the group. "Know, my good men,
that rude and tattered though I appear, I am Ebenezer Cooke, appointed
by the Lord Proprietary to the office of Poet and Laureate of the Province
of Maryland; I and my man have suffered imprisonment at the hands of
pirates and narrowly escaped a watery grave. I shall not this time report
your conduct to your masters, but do henceforth show more respect, if not
for me, at least for Poetry!"

This speech they greeted with applause and raucous cheers, which, taking
them as a sign of gratitude for his leniency, elicited from the Laureate a
benign smile.

"Now," he said, "I know not where in Maryland I stand, but I must go
at once to Maiden, my plantation on Choptank River. I shall require both
transportation and direction, for I know naught of the Province. You, my
man," he went on, addressing the old man with the branded palm who
had spoken previously. "Will you lead me thither? I'm certain your master
shan't object, when he learns the office of your passenger."

"Aye, now, that's certain!" the fellow answered, with a glance at his
companions. "But say, now, Master Poet, how will ye pay me for my labor?
For we must paddle o'er this river here, and there's nothing floats like
gold."

Ebenezer hid his discomfort behind an even haughtier mien. "As't hap-
pens, my man, what gold I have is not upon my person. In any case, I
daresay your master would forbid you to take money in such a worthy
service."

"HI take my chances there," the old man said. "If ye cannot pay me,
ye'll cross as best ye can. Is't possible so great a man hath not a ring or
other kind of valuable?"

"Ye may have mine/' growled Bertrand. "Tis a bona fide salvage relic,
that I hear is worth a fortune." He reached into his breeches pocket. "Hi,
there, Fve lost it through a hole "

"Out on't!" Ebenezer cried, losing patience with the Marylander. "Not
for nothing am I Laureate of this Province! Ferry me across, fellow, and
you shall be rewarded with the finest gold e'er mined: the pure coin of
poetry!"

The old man cocked his head as though impressed. "Coin o' poetry, is
it? Ye mean ye'll say me a verse for paddling across the river?"

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 315 ]

"Recite?" Ebenezer scoffed. "Nay, man, I shan't recite; I shall compose!
I shall extemporize! Your gold will not be soiled from many hands but
be struck gleaming from the mint before your eyes!"

The man scratched one clipped ear. "Well, I don't know. I ne'er heard
tell of business done like that."

"Tut," Ebenezer reassured him. " Tis done from day to day in Europe,
and for weightier matters than a pitiful ferry ride. Doth not Cervantes tell
us of a poet in Spain that hired himself a harlot for three hundred sonnets
on the theme of Pyramus and Thisbe?"

"Ye do not tell me!" marveled the ferryman. "Three hundred sonnets!
And what, pray, might a sonnet be?"

Ebenezer smiled at the fellow's ignorance. " 'Tis a verse-form."

"A verse-form, now!"

"Aye. We poets do not merely make poems; we make certain sorts of
poems. Just as in coins you have farthings and pence and shillings and
crowns, in verse you have quatrains and sonnets and villanelles and ron-
delays."

"Aha!" said the ferryman. "And this sonnet, then, is like a shilling? Or
a half crown? For I shall ask a crown to paddle ye o'er this river."

"A crown!" the poet cried.

"No less, Your Excellency—the currents and tides, ye know, this time
of year."

Ebenezer looked skeptically at the placid river.

"He is a rogue and very Jew," Bertrand said.

"Ah well, no matter,, Bertrand." Ebenezer winked at his valet and turned
again to the Marylander. "But see here, my man, you must know a sonnet's
worth a half pound sterling on the current London market."

"Spare me the last line oft then," said the ferryman, "for I shan't give
change."

"Done." To the bystanders, who had watched the bargaining with amuse-
ment, he said, "Witness that this fellow hath agreed, on consideration of
one sonnet, not including the final line, to ferry Ebenezer Cooke, Poet and

Laureate of Maryland, and his man across the I say, what do you call

this river?"

"The Choptank/' Ebenezer's boatman answered quickly.

"You don't say! Then Maiden must be near at hand!"

"Aye," the old man vowed. " Tis just through yonder woods. Ye can
walk there lightly once ye cross this river."

"Excellent! Done, then?"

[ 316 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Done, Your Highness, done!' ' He held up an unclean finger. "But I
shall want my payment in advance." ,

"Ah, come now!" Ebenezer protested.

"What doth it matter?" whispered Bertrand.

"What warrant have I thou'rt a poet at all?" the man insisted. "Pay me
now, or no feny ride."

Ebenezer sighed. "So be't." And to the group: "A silence, now, an it
please you."

Then, pressing a finger to his temple and squinting both his eyes, he
struck an attitude of composition, and after a moment declaimed:

"Hence, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
In Stygian cave forlorn

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;

There, under Ebon shades, and low-browed Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell"

There was some moments' silence.

"Well, come, my man!" the poet urged. "You have your fare!"

"What? Is that a sonnet?"

'On my honor," Ebenezer assured him. "Minus the final line, to be

.

sure

"To be sure, to be sure." The boatman tugged at his mutilated ear.
"So that is my half-pound sonnet! A great ugly one 'twas, at that, with
all those shrieks and hollowings in't."

"What matter? Would you lift your nose at a gold piece if the King had
an ugly head? A sonnet's a sonnet."

"Aye, aye, 'tis the truth," sighed the ferryman, and shook his head as
though outwitted. "Very well, then; yonder's my canoe."

"Let's be off," said the poet, and took his valet's arm triumphantly.

But when he saw the vessel they were to cross in, he came near to letting
his ferryman keep the sonnet gratis. "Had I guessed this swine trough was
to be our boat, I'd have kept the dark Gimmerian desert in rty purse "

"Complain no more," the boatman answered. "Had I but known whrt
a grubby pittance was your sonnet, ye'd have swum for all o' me."

Thus understanding each other, ferryman and passengers climbed cau-

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ Jiy ]

tiously aboard the dugout canoe and proceeded out onto the river, which
lay as smooth as any looking glass. When well past mid-channel they found
the surface still unrippled, the passengers began to suspect that the difficulty
of the crossing had been exaggerated.

"I say," asked Bertrand from the bow, "where are those wicked tides and
currents, that made this trip so dear?"

"Nowhere save in my fancy," said the ferryman with a grin. "Since ye
were paying your passage with a poem, I had as well demand a big one-
it cost ye no more."

"Oho!" cried Ebenezer. "So you deceived me! Well, think not thou'rt
aught the richer for't, my fellow, for the sonnet was not mine: I had it
from one whose talent equals my own "

But the boatman was not a whit put out by this disclosure. "Last year's
gold is as good as this year's," he declared, "and one man's as good as
another's. Though ye did play false upon your pledge, I'm nowise poorer
for't. A ha' pound's a ha' pound, and a sonnet's a sonnet," Just then the
canoe touched the opposite shore of the river. "Here ye be, Master Poet,
and the joke's on you."

"Blackguard!" grumbled Bertrand.

Ebenezer smiled. "As you will, sir; as you will." He stepped ashore with
Bertrand and waited until the ferryman pushed back onto the river; then
he laughed and called to him: "Yet the truth is, Master Numskull, you
sit fleeced from nape to shank! Not only is your sonnet not my doing;
'tis not even a sonnet! Good day, sir!" He made ready to flee through the
woods to Maiden should the ferryman pursue them, but that gentleman
merely clucked his tongue, between strokes of his paddle.

"No matter, Master Madman," he called back. " Tis not the Choptank
River, either. Good night, sir!"

19: THE LAUREATE ATTENDS A SWINE-MAIDEN'S
TALE

UPON REALIZING THAT THE FERRYMAN HAD MAROONED HIM IN HE KNEW

not what wild woods, Ebenezer set up a considerable hallooing and crying,
hoping thereby to attract someone from the opposite shore to rescue him;
but the men in Scotch cloth were evidently in on the prank, for they

[ 318 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

turned away and left the hapless pair to their own devices. Already the
light was failing: at length he left off his calling and surveyed the woods
around them, which grew more shadowy by the minute.

"Only think on't!" he said. "Twas Maryland all along!"

Bertrand kicked disconsolately at a tree stump. "More's the pity, says I.
Your Maryland hath not even civil citizens/7

"Ah, friend, your heart was set on a golden city, and Maryland hath
none. But Gold is where you find it, is't not? What treasure is more valuable
than this, to reach unscathed our journey's end?"

"I would Fd stayed with Drakepecker on the beach/' the valet said.
"What good hath come since we discovered where we are? Who knows
what beasts we'll find in yonder shadows? Or salvages, that rightly hate
an English face?"

"And yet, 'tis Maryland!" Ebenezer sighed happily. "Who knows but
what my father, and his father, have crossed this selfsame river and seen
those selfsame trees? Think on't, man: we are not far from Maiden!"

"And is that such a joyous thought, sir,, when for aught we know 'tis
no more your estate?"

Ebenezer's face fell. "I'faith, I had forgot your wager!" At thought of
it he joined his valet's gloom and sat at the foot of a nearby birch. "We
dare not try these woods tonight, at any rate. Build up a fire, and we'll
find our way at dawn."

"Twill draw the Indians, will it not?" Bertrand asked.

"It might," the poet said glumly. "On the other hand, 'twill keep away
the beasts. Do as you please."

Indeed, even as Bertrand commenced striking on the flint from his tin-
derbox— in which also he had brought from the beach a small supply of
dried sea-grass for tinder— the two men heard the grunt of an animal
somewhere among the trees not many yards upstream.

"Hark!" Goose flesh pimpled the Laureate's arms, and he jumped to
his feet. "Make haste there with the fire!"

The grunt sounded again, accompanied by a rustling of leaves; a moment
later another answered from farther away, and then another and another,,
until the wood was filled with the sound of beasts, advancing in their
direction. While Bertrand struck furiously at the flint, Ebenezer called
once more across the river for help, but there was no one to hear.

"A spark! I have a spark!" cried Bertrand, and cupped the tinder in his
hands to blow up a flame. "Make ready the kindling wood!" '

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 319 ]

" 'Sheart, we've not got any!" The sound was almost upon them now.
"Run for the river!"

Bertrand dropped the seaweed, and they raced headlong into the shal-
lows; nor had they got knee-deep before they heard the animals burst out
of the woods behind them and squeal and snuffle on the muddy shore.

"You there!" cried a woman's voice. "Are ye mad or merely drunken?"

"Marry!" said Bertrand. " Tis a woman!"

They turned round in surprise and in the last light saw standing on the
mud bank a disheveled woman of uncertain age, dressed, like the men on
the landing, in bleached and tattered Scotch cloth and carrying a stick
with which she drove a number of swine. These latter grumped and rooted
along the shore, pausing often to regard the two men balefully.

"Dear Heav'n, the jest's on us!" the poet called back, and did his best
to laugh. "My man and I are strangers to the Province, and were left
stranded here by some dolt for a prank!"

"Come hither, then," the woman said. "These swine shan't eat ye." To
reassure them she drove the nearest hog off with her stick, and the two
men waded ^horewards.

"I thank you for your kindness," Ebenezer said; "haply 'tis in your power
to do me yet another, for I need a lodging for the night. My name is
Ebenezer Cooke, Poet and Laureate of the Province of Maryland, and
I— nay, madam, fear not for your modesty!" The woman had gasped and
turned away as they approached. "Our clothes are wet and ragged, but
they cover us yet!" Ebenezer prattled on. "In sootk I'm not the picture
of a laureate poet, I know well; 'tis owing to the many trials I've been
through, the like of which you'd ne'er believe if I should tell you. Kidnaped
by pirates and thrown overboard to die! But once I reach my manor on
the Choptank— i'God/"

The woman had turned in his direction and raised her head. Her black
hair showed no signs of soap or comb, nor had she plagued her skin over-
much with scrubbing. But what caused Ebenezer to break off in mid-
sentence was the fact that except for her slovenliness and the open sores
that even in the shadow were conspicuous on her face and arms, the swine-
maiden could have passed for the girl in the Cyprian's rigging; and but
for a decade's difference in their apparent ages, she bore a certain resem-
blance to the youthful whore Joan Toast.

"Am I such a sight as that?" the woman asked harshly.

"Nay, nay, forgive me!" Ebenezer begged. " 'Tis quite the contrary: you
look in some ways like a girl I knew in London— how long since!"

[ 320 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

"Ye do not tell me! Had this wench my lovely clothes and fine com-
plexion, and did ye show a nice concern for her maidenhead?"

"Ah, prithee, speak less sourly!" the Laureate said. "If I said aught to hurt
thee, I swear 'twas not intended!"

The maid turned sullenly away. "My master's house lies just round yon-
der point, a mile or two. Ye can bed there if yeVe a mind to." Without
waiting for reply she smote the nearest hog upon its ham-butt with her
stick to start it moving, and the procession grunted upstream toward the
point.

"She bears some likeness to Joan Toast," Ebenezer whispered to Ber-
trand.

"As doth a bat to a butterfly," the valet replied contemptuously, "that
make their way through the world by the selfsame means."

"Ah, now," the poet protested, and the memory of his adventure on the
Cyprian made him dizzy; "she's but a swineherd and unclean, yet she
hath a certain air . . ."

" Tis that she's windward of us, if ye should ask me."

But Ebenezer would not be discouraged; he caught up to the woman
and asked her name.

"Why, 'tis Susan Warren, sir," she said uncordially. "I suppose ye want
to hire me for your whore?"

"Dear Heavens, no! Twas but an idle pleasantry, I swear! D'you think
a laureate poet plays with whores?"

For answer, Susan Warren only sniffed.

"Who is your master, then?" Ebenezer demanded, somewhat less gently.
" 'Twill be surpassing pleasant to meet a proper gentleman, for I've met
no Marylander yet who was not either a rogue or a simpleton. Yet Lord
Baltimore, when he wrote out my commission, made much of the manners
and good breeding in his Province and charged me to write of them."

Instead of answering, the swine-maiden, to Ebenezer's considerable sur-
prise, began to weep.

"Why, what is this? Said I aught to affront you?"

The procession halted, and Bertrand came up chuckling from behind.
" Tis that the lady hath tender feelings, sir. 'Twas boorish of ye not to
hire her services."

"Enough!" the poet commanded, and said to Susan Warren, "'Tis not
my wont to traffic in harlotry, ma'am; forgive me if I gave you to think
otherwise."

"'Tis none o' your doing, sir," the woman replied, and resumed her

THE SOT-WEED FACTOR [ 321 ]

pace along the path. "The truth is that my master's such a rascal, and uses
me so ill, e'en to think on't brings the tears."

"And how is that? Doth he beat you, then?"

She shook her head and sniffed. "If 'twere but a birching now and again
I'd not complain. The rod's but one among my grievances, nor yet a very
great one."

"He doth worse, then?" Ebenezer exclaimed.

"Ffaith, he must be hard pressed for diversion," said the valet, and drew
a stern look from his master.

Susan Warren permitted herself another round of wails and tears, after
which, heaving a sigh to Heaven and kicking in the bacon a pig that stopped
before her to make water in the path, she poured out to the Laureate the
whole tale of her tribulations, as follows:

"I was bom Susan Smith," she said, "and my mother died a-bearing me,
My father had a small shop in London, near Puddle Dock, where he
coopered casks and barrels for the ships. One day when I was eighteen
and pretty as ye please, I took a stroll down Blackfriars o'er to Ludgate,
and was bowed to by a handsome wight that called me Miss Williams,
and asked to walk along with me. Te may not do't,' I told him, 'nor is
my name Miss Williams/ 'How's this?' he cried. "Thou'rt not Miss Eliza-
beth Williams from Gracechurch Street?' 1 am not/ said I. 'Then pardon
me/ said he, 'thou'rt like as twins/

" Twas clear to me the lad spoke truly, for he was a civil gentleman and
blushed at his mistake, He said he was in love with this Miss Williams, but
for all she said she loved him she'd have none o' him for her husband, and
spoke of some great sin that damned her soul. Yet this Humphrey Warren
(that was his name) declared he'd have her to wife with all the sins o'
man upon her conscience.

"I saw poor Humphrey often then by Ludgate, for Miss Williams grew
less ardent day by day; he told me all his trials on her account, and said we
looked so much alike, 'twas as if he spoke to her instead of me. For my part,
I envied this Miss Williams not a little, and thought her a great fool to
scorn so fine a gentleman. Dear Humphrey was not rich, but he held a
decent post in the firm of a Captain Mitchell, that was Miss Williams'
older half brother,, and had every other virtue that could please a woman's
heart.

"Then one day Humphrey came to Father's shop near Puddle Dock,
weeping fit to die, and said Miss Williams had done herself to death with

[ 522 ] THE SOT-WEED FACTOR

poison! I took pity on the man, albeit at heart I had none for Miss Williams,
and rejoiced when Humphrey came to see me every day. At length he said,
'Dear Susan, thy likeness to Elizabeth is my curse and my salvation! I weep
to see ye, thinking of her dead; yet I cannot think her gone, with her living
image every day before me/ And I said, 'I could wish, sir, ye saw somewhat
beyond that likeness/

"This gave him pause, and anon he went to Father, and we two were
wed. Yet for all I strove to win my Humphrey's love, I saw 'twas but the
image of Miss Williams he made love to. One night when he lay sleeping
fast I kissed him, and in his sleep he said, 'God save ye, sweet Elizabeth!'
Fool that I was, I woke him on the instant, and made him choose betwixt
the two of us. 'Elizabeth is dead,' I said, 'and I'm alive. Do ye love me,
love myself and not my likeness, else I shan't stay in this bed another
moment!'

"Ah, God! Had I been but ten years older, or one groatsworth wiser, I'd
have held my tongue! What matter what he called me, so he loved me?
Why, didn't he call me Honey and Sweetheart and a flock of names besides,
as well as Susan? I cursed my speech the moment 'twas spoke, but the hurt
was done. 'Dear Susan!' Humphrey cried. 'Why did ye that? Would God
ye had not asked me to choose!'

"All for naught then my begging and weeping; he'd not let me put by my
words, but he must choose. And choose he did, though not a word he said
oft; for next morn he was too ill to rise, and died not four days after. Thus
was I widowed at nineteen years. . . .

"My father had grave troubles of his own, for his trade was poor, and
Humphrey's niggard funeral took his savings. He went into debt to pay for
food and stock, and just when the lot was gone, and the creditors were
hounding at our door, a man came in to order casks for's vessel, which he
said was bound for Maryland at month's end. So pleased was Father to
get